This serpentine interior monologue -
I break it or allow it to break
into sentence fragments, not violently
but each daisy chain phrase
plucked delicately apart
into pleasant, disconnected incoherence;
letting it run ahead, out of earshot, while I
slip back and forth through that well-oiled gate
where no such whisperings
could ever tempt a soul into anything
contrary to God's benevolent oneness.
Let them die mercilessly on the vine then,
those sticky, persistent, overripe seductions
and pray for the garden to become
a realm of pure observation; a quiet, paled,
permanent, edenic place of dwelling.
O child of God, like pearls string together
those artfully concocted manonash moments.