You had a dimple of tenderness
on top of your skull
when you were a baby.
Then bones closed over and sealed you in,
safe from the whirl of night,
its whispering invitation to dissolve.
But in some of us the portal didn't close.
The silken sap that oozes through our vertebrae
gets spooled back to its galaxy.
Our breath is a broken rosary of crystal planets
spilling into an empty glass.
Each sigh is unconditional surrender.
A black hole tethers our attention to no thing.
The glittering gyre of darkness reels us in,
dragging our roots toward fire like upside-down roses.
Yet our wounds connect us,
letting beams of moonlight in.
And when we break wide open,
one endless ray flows through all bodies.
Don't be hasty to harden your bruise
and proclaim yourself a healer.
Bruises are windows.
Be an opening, not a knower.
I know that it’s voguish to say
you are of the earth,
but for those who have no choice,
only half a Self dwells here.
The rest is there, watching what sleeps,
breathing uncreated warmth down to
the buried bulbs of a famished heart.
This flesh is made of fallen offerings.
The petals are edible.
And we know the Truth, not by thinking,
but by its fragrance.
Photo by Kristy
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