Inhalation Creates

Inhalation creates, exhalation adores.
Some say, if your body is filled with fire
there is no need to pray; I say
your body is a prayer.
Strike a breath against your flesh
and see how you die in feathery sparks.
A nerve is a river, a cell is an ocean filled
with frolicking swan-like gods.
They never fret about how many believers
they might gain or lose.
All they do is thirst and dissolve.
We think our lives are short and theirs are long.
But every instant is an eternity for them.
The distant galaxies are their shadows,
tattooing your skin with living beams
of uncreated light.
There's a candelabra hanging in the mansion
of your brain; set it ablaze!
This is how St. Francis saw Jesus
in the banquet hall of his pituitary,
and why he told us to look at the one
who is looking.
When will you realize that each breath
is an angel whose kiss of trembling silence
entwine the flames of night around your spine?
In the sepulcher of your vertebrae,
the Lord of Stillness reposes like crucified wind.
His Magdalen consort is the algebra
of undulation.
At the end of time, they entangle and conceive
a new earth in violet waves of possibility.
A single sigh in your body ignites them:
this is how powerful you are.
Through their joy, the endless past
evaporates into the fragrance of this moment.
Therefor to speak of the future is always a lie.
Now is the wedding! Don't sing
about ashes that no longer taste like bread.
That gardenia-scented tryst is over.
What lingers is the whisper of regrets
on a smoldering pillow of bones.
All I mean to tell you is, have a little gratitude.
Let your lungs truly taste this air
and your heart will drink the wine of heaven.