The infinite journey
into the present moment
has no beginning
and no end.
You think that this is
No, my friend, the distance
is drenched in hemoglobin,
crowded with microbes.
There are no survivors.
All of us die somewhere
on the way to the flower,
or the way back down
to the seed.
Inhalation, exhalation.
You fall from the quivering
tip of an axon
into the hollow cauldron
of the synapse,
only to find yourself
slung into the heavens
by a glittering sneeze
of star pollen,
a shaft of wonder
from your optic nerve.
Vast annihilation
is ecstasy.
Now drink
the empty spaces
beyond the rim of time's cup,
which is a golden crocus
in the melting snow.
If your own eye can't do it,
use mine.
Get into my body
and fasten your seat belt.
The infinite journey
is this breath.
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