When you risk being fully kneaded,
beaten and pressed into this heartbeat,
you dissolve as a flame of sensation
and don't have to believe in anything
because you taste Aphrodite's nipple
in a blackberry. You pluck Christ
from a twig on the forest trail,
attain satori through the fragrance
of honeysuckle, the sound of a raindrop,
ancient light from an extinct star, now
merely an electron on a neuron's tip,
the flicker of this thought.
O traveler, isn't it time to arrive?
Jesus didn't say to the hungry,
“this is my soul.” He said,
“take, eat, this is my body."
Brown fingers ply the corn flour
into a tortilla. Your sunburnt shoulder
shrugs off the strap of your bathing suit.
One warmth glowing in two coals, our
gravity thickens and folds the golden
batter of its distances into galactic
swirling selves, each crumb flavored
by the un-created. Don’t anticipate
our evanescence, dear, or cling to love.
Just keep growing young and
savoring essential oils.
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