Order, mathematics, and sequence, and what’s able to fit in an angel number, and the sort of perfection that is able to fit in a poem with a set number of words, the ripple and flow of their ideas, how they can latch onto something relevant, positive and negative, creating a shadow of something real, your natural reaction, a gynecologist, and raspberries, texture files, sweat and tears, the idea of blood and vampire bites, feeding off energy to get to the next meal, and how you have to bite, to mark the occasion and say it was real, just shadows, but Walmart girl, I remember your bush and panties, bus baby in red, the caress of your lips, what naturally moves the mind, spiders weaving webs, spells and magick, all that a poem can be, a natural arrangement, art and architecture, such great spirits, the sun and the moon, pulling strings, and guiding everything, old souls looking for immature spirits, and young virgins, so many levels and layers, looking up at the stars, who a person can be, or even what a poet can do, what I can try, but my spirit dwindles, calm desires, gentle fires, hoping for peace and death, broken-head and a spiritual sea, man, and gooseberry jam, so much can exist, the river flows, only so much calls to my soul, I try to remain true to the spirit of the poem, and I try to make jokes, but so much echoes, good and evil, it feels weird to ignore, maybe I’d rather acknowledge it, shadows, and the edge of my mind, within the realm of possibilities, sex, behind closed doors, and within the lines, alas, the ocean goes so deep, in the end, I probably can’t make a dent in it…

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