For just
an instant
between breaths
be held
in the gentle palm
of desolation.
Let a wing
of
desirelessness
glide up your spine,
ringing the star bell
in each
vertebra,
turning the cells
of your body into
chalices of golden fire.
If this be too abstract,
remember how her lips
seemed to melt as they
rose up to press your tongue
for sustenance.
Is it not the same pressing,
the same nectar?
Gaze until you burn
a black hole in her face.
Use memory for fuel.
Then
look
into seeing itself and see
how your eyes precede creation.
Your eyes are the Vedas,
mirror-yantras
opening a way
to the darkness of love.
But first you need
to exhale everything
you ever believed.
Surrender the argument.
Resist not, then whisper
the great
liberating
maha-mantra,
"I don't know."
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