For some, desire is as common in the mind-medium
as occurrence is,
as chemistry between two people is,
as all things with handles are,
or as subtle as composing a propositional koan
to puzzle the day.
We attempt to make this kind of inner reflection
in a similar way as a puppeteer shills puppetry talk.
We make the desire experience seem veiled
behind the liquid of prominent sensing,
endlessly pouring over the surface-consciousness
of our being.
We make formal thought appear as walls,
plastered in frozen frames,
and memory as a slow patience of a fragrance
to the edges just outside of personal time.
Desire is potentially a remake of our entirety,
feeding us a new form of self-interval,
just short of one eternity life of our being.
Desire is the river's bottom
always pledging solid steadfast assistance,
this as the hidden side of life force,
but none the less honoring the float of our icons,
which eventually beach,
laden with meaning or relevance
and then somehow onto dust.
Where in this process, this migration,
is the heart, desires' deeds do not fully serve?
Desire celebrates "new instigation as a need,"
then desire becomes the seepage of joy
as an "expression of being."
For without desire,
we seem quite heartless . . .