Again

In your next incarnation,
I will be your breath.
What is love?
Since we met, I no longer pray
that this be my last life on earth.
Enlightenment is not to soar
above the body but to dance
through the aching, gaze
through the years.
It is not flesh that disappears
in paradise, but this "I"
who cannot see your face,
or taste the dark matter of desire.
Let me come back, reclaim
this human energy and beam
through your pupils, breathe
up your spine, quiver your veins
with my flame of exhalation,
swelling two chests
with the motion of one mind
incarnate in a sigh.
I want to undulate
inside your breastbone,
drip down your sternum,
float on the rising falling
tide of your belly.
I want to be your gasp
and whisper, build my hut
in the valley of your bosom.
The mud between our toes,
the wattle of our bones,
shall be home-making stuff.
And if beyond the farthest
galaxy there wander
better stars, in some exile
of perfection, let them fall
into our moist unholy sky,
and take birth
as our children again.  


My young family dancing with seagulls at the Jersey Shore, 1989