As pen alights on paper, if you please
and skulls across a current of delight
A hollow rib, with strokes that imitate
as soothing breasted waves articulate
an oceanic feeling. No point in confessing.
No original sin which has not been embodied
by some wiser predecessor. Signs embodied
within the walls of tombs. Epitaphs which please
and educate. Carved by stone masons confessing
diamond blade encounters and delight
in depressed granite words that articulate
worlds of shadow and dust. Lines only imitate
what is lost and cannot be conceived again. Imitate
the essence of the once-upon embodied
thus-ness and such-ness, but not is-ness. Inarticulate,
tracing these patterns as we please
and where they intersect we find delight.
Less alone now, by the act of confessing-
offering up habitual Hail Marys. Confessing,
unburdening, wrapping our sins in velvet we imitate
our ancestors. Take smooth, round delight
fingering and caressing redemption embodied
in warm wooden malas, that please
and distract us from fear made articulate
in flesh. The promise of illusions articulate
inevitable entrapments, the circle game confessing
the priority of habit. Change would please
except for the anxiety. We could imitate
an inkling of something better embodied
in utero, ex nihilo, drifting amniotic warmth and delight.
But growing more constrained with consciousness. Delight
pounds against walls of womb, articulate
in limbs. Stretching tiny fingers, future skeleton embodied
in swaddling tissues. Inexorable monster confessing
that once ungirdled it will soon imitate-
forgetting all verities in its efforts to please,
to belong, to come full circle, infinitely confessing
sins not yet committed. Fear-manacled it imitates
the muddled instinct our blood yearns to please.
