Dancer, Delight

Some say you are not this body.
I say you are a tidal wave of stars
whose ancient roar has just arrived
to shape your torso into flame.
I say the dark abyss devouring time
is the well of your exhalation.
And if you will not rendezvous
with your Creator in a liver spot,
a crow-footed furrow in this aching 
fallow-fallen meadow of  flesh,
or these ripening gossamer gray thistles,
how will you taste the bloom and blood
of lips on the heavenly Christ Rose?
Come now, enter your patient skin
and use the faintest feather brush of
breath on bone to dust the mind away
beyond astonishment, lost in nuclei.
Float your pollen in a beam of seeing.
Glory of sod, I say you are this body,
loam of ancestors, risen from loss
and yearning so deep below no god
could fall there, never having breathed
the sky into this golden atom of death.
Now be the blackest vacuum at the core
of all that whirls; gaze out in crazed
clarity through the windows of a quark
at photon moons, molecules, supernovae
foaming in the belly of the Goddess, Uu.
Dancer, delight in divine confusion,
stunned by your mortal magnificence.
Become the dusty silence who has all
along been listening to your prayers.

Photo by Bu Reem on Flikr