Dust

Every atom of you sings to its native star
about some incomprehensible connection
between pain and beauty.

Wrathful deities cock their heads,
Bodhisattva's blink,
losing their place in the Heart Sutra,

perplexed and ever so sweetly troubled
by the music emitted from your nuclei.
Something about your gravity and grief

disturbs them with a sign of courage.
They long to clothe themselves in what
weighs you down to the mother of bodies,

the planetary pulse of sweet grass and gray hair,
the empty park benches, lonely faces
of dissolving frost on maple leaves.

Angels yearn to fathom the opacity
of your tears, and smother their brilliant
souls in your dust.