Leap
I inhabit this body for more than half a century. I inhabit this
mind for less than half a second. What lupine-blue moth from the
mountains lands on my chest, gently pulsing its wings until they find
the stillness that is always here?
Or what edgeless sky,
camouflaged as my soul, awakens in each honeyed cell of flesh? It
withers and dries in the Autumn of my bones, returns in a breath with
the fragrance of wisteria, purple riot on gnarled roots of patience.
The morning sun is
completely contained in a dewdrop on the hummingbird's tongue. If you
want to evaporate into pure compassion, hold two opposites in a hollow
place: the desiccated wick of the old moon, and this promiscuous flame.
(It leaps from lover to lover, eye to eye, one star to another, crying "Yes!")
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