A Park Bench

Don't go on and on

about Oneness.

Just fall silently in love

with the bittersweet juice
that runs all down our mystery,

then see what happens.

Meet your pain with a kiss

of direct perception.
Angels yearn to fathom
this opacity of tears
and smother their brilliance
in your dust,

where there are no names
for things, only
the peep of a frog,
the sting of a nettle,
the vacancy of a park bench
covered with wet leaves
where we met and surely
touched one summer afternoon -

all signs of awakening,

signs of a Witness enraptured
by the sad, broke-open,

unfallen world...