Culture Portal

I feel air the tip of fingers; and I read something: a mystic:

Anti-Christian. We trekked graves; and failed growth; and

Burdened love—with cries of breath. He spoke of deer:

A touch of anger: I died solemn. What silence: a vocal jest;

And we trekked the bridge, and fell the sky. His burgundy

Soul: a sun and star; and we panic’d light: God’s touch; and

What verse: we rise Blood; and what Christ: our God. I

Couldn’t see; and still dark: a walk of fens: the grip of skin.

Fall our nightmare: a Title; and feel our bliss: sensation; and

Near the stream: a rite of wings; and flood of mind: our

Presence; and what silence, an uttered cry; and what journey:

A summer storm; and “balled into a fist”: our freedom; and

Clustered in a corner: our sight; and such rage: a deaf pulse;

But such mystic, an abstract river.