Reading Emily Dickinson intoxicated casts out rhythm and rhyme leaving substance like the meat of oranges.
The code breaks and meter becomes an oar in water stirring a lonely soul into the world's vastness.
A porch light steals and gives to the emotionally poor. Eyes.
My heart breaks with a kitten's mew, barely audible to the next-door neighbors.
And yet, I celebrate immortality with my goddess, though celebrate is hardly the term. Instead, I pause on elaborating--caught between dashes and monosyllabic endings.
I'd rather encrypt my sentiments than pour myself (out).
The eyes who have never read Shelley's Frankenstein read me as I read Dickinson intoxicated--without rhythm or rhyme--finally making sense of it, as a child could never do. Yet I feel childish writing of love again.
True love is selfless and breathes in night like questions asked, sincerely seeking (you) without privleges assumed.
Of all the souls that stand create-- I have elected--One--
When Sense from Spirit-files away--
And Subterfuge--is done--
When that which is--and that which was-- Apart--intrinsic--stand-- And this brief Drama in the flesh Is shifted--like a Sand-- When Figures sow their royal Front-- And Mists--are carved away, Behold the Atom--I preferred-- To all the lists of Clay!