I got drunk
on the gin
of subtraction.
From every creature
I deducted your name.
From your name
I subtracted my breath.
The remainder
was nectar.
Then I took away
the one who tasted it.
I think I may have subtracted
loss itself.
Now there is only
a fragrance of poppies,
a forest the color
of blood, the green
of parrot shouts,
the silver of glistening
toads, evocative
of death not by violence
but beauty.
I subtracted the veil
between worlds.
What remains is
the entangled chaos
of my astonishment.
Pay attention.
The Beloved is whispering,
“Loss will teach you
everything.”
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