Dorothea’s Participatory Lyric

I am here
Just a blaze or symmetry of molasses
And graves of early-sighted poets
That have never seen crushed fruit
Or flirted pretentiously
With skyscrapers in August
Mines of collective waste
Buckets like gold and pearls and filler
Restored for the resin or inarticulate postings

Now, I am there
Never too timid to be a wasteful master
Along the water and the portion of the memory
Like a patter of weddings and treasured givings
Tomorrow left for the day it brings
Much like the day of immeasurable hurt
That one man can feel in the arms of a saint
Of a magistrate “founder” like oil canvas measurements
She told me she would not task remedies for verse forever

She is here, in a makeshift theatre
Obscuring the partial observing reason like logic disposed
Where planets orbit in the way of the vision of constellations
From our breathing to theirs, from our wedding to this invitation
In repose to the doorsteps of grandiose matrimony and sent hires
Desire left unattained and unhoped for, not desired or needed
Not here among the counted bliss of abject harmonies
Not here among Dorothea’s side-eye and self-congratulatory expectations
I suppose Dorothea is here to stay, a gift for a reason, less obvious than most