Complin

 

 

Rest ever
so gently now,
guided by a scent of myrrh
from the tower
of voluptuous silence
inside you.
I speak of the spiral
stairway of night
in the frail bones of your vertebrae

as you descend
to the sacred underworld

in your body.
Penetrate the dark
energy of absence,

and you will find
a mysterious sepulcher
in every stone,
hollow as your own throat,
a cup of Christ's blood
in the first tulip.
You’ll taste the bread
of higher worlds
in a plum bud.
The Spirit will flow from sod
into your foot soles,
consuming your flesh
with the green flame that
undulated in your marrow
before there was light.

Now gaze up

through your spine

at the radiance of a trillion stars.

Or are they reflections
in a deep well?
Stillness knows no distance,
no above, no below.

Let this breath be a kiss
on your belly.
You are the healing stranger

you've been praying for.

You are the ancient friend.

All will be well

through dreams and sleep
if your heart keeps
smoldering with love.