Non-Existence
is a stream
that washes everything,
sparkling through the fallen feather,
the lost engagement ring, the tears,
sharpening the scimitar, defining
its deadly edge by what is honed away.
The
space that bubbles an atom
immerses distant supernovae
in a
vast and intimate negation.
See how humbly the Lord refuses
any temple
but the temple of dissolving?
Dark
matter is fire, fire is breath,
breath
is ocean.
Whatever pulses overflows with God,
waves of
sex in your body.
Are you not a lightning bolt
of golden wine, poured down
from the "Hu" sound of creation?
Each cell of you a smile remembering
a womb where the corners
of her mouth touched,
making spheres of "O!"
the
first word of every prayer,
the
black hole containing
all you
will ever need to unlearn?
A swirl of secret happiness
weaves
these sticks in a flicker's nest,
a
galaxy, a pine cone, the up-spun
Swainson's thrush song, a staircase
in the tower of your backbone.
Whatever spirals before you now
is the final revelation, instantly gone.
It is
all one standing wave
arising
through genuflection.
The rhythm of your breast.
The
bewilderment of Jesus.
the
violin of a cricket's legs.
Throb of
moon path on the sea.
Throw
yourself on the linoleum.
There is no other freedom.
Painting by Anne-Marie Zilberman
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