Don't look for any
center.
Be the roundness in whatever spins.
Your sit-bone saddled in
the space between the worlds.
A pebble honed by eons of water,
the way your embryo was shaped
by swirling desire.
Or the design of the nest
in the mind of the song thrush
even before the sky gets curved
into tiny blue eggs
because the pull of a proton
reins in its star.
The roundness of grapes
ripening into gold.
Or a withered dandelion with
nothing left to give,
dispersing herself in useless beauty,
inspiring galaxies.
A new moon's hollow
storing up the ocean's pulse.
Those distant rims of emptiness,
spilling midnight effervescence.
Your passion exerting
a circumference of yearning
from your belly to the horizon,
causing every breath to rise
and set like the sun.
Now notice the implicit prayer bead
haloing every stranger.
Claim that as your tear.
Don't look for any center.
Photo by my dear friend Kristy Thompson
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