Hark back to the testing days.
You made your mark in the sky
throned on cloudsplayed rays.
Thought is a curdled belt, informing
serenity of a shapely waste, of timed
reflux of mentality. Speak out.
solid knees always dazzling
professional etiquette throughout a line
of brow-stressing, or depressing, truth;
darting spear that punctuated hair.
Not your habit to writhe fascistically,
wring the blood of stigmatism, flout
a story. Yet the parchment quenches
a studious thirst for prayer, benevolence
for enamorata in the stalls. Which woman
stills the benched pedestrian, lost
for nation and quotation, lowered head
in commuted wisdom, lunch tone:
I'm a mere visitor, entranced,
your fingers charge the air.