The space beyond the sun
at the far end of the Milky Way
is the hollow in the mustard seed
that was planted in the furrow
of your missing rib.
Therefor breathe the night.
You are so ancient.
Your glow is still approaching
like a promise, a pilgrim God,
and you are still receiving
your name.
How do I know this?
I don't. I taste it.
Someone touches
the soft spot on my crown
and pours the nectar of emptiness
down my bones.
I won’t say who,
but her scent is pungent
with silence.
Her breath shimmers
with the radiance of the dark.
If I were one of those soul merchants
Who sell keys to the door
that is always open,
I would bottle her perfume
and call it
"Bewilderment."
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