Sitting

Whatever ache

or sensation you feel

right now, the hunger,

the numbness, the weary

dream story sleep

cannot cure,

you must know that

your body is made

of pure and boundless light,

requiring no transformation.

All paths end here

in a synapse,

the ineffable trembling

of a single nerve.

Your thigh bone is a butterfly wing.

Your marrow of dark matter

is a cloud full of snow.

When you take one inhalation,

you receive a stream of stars

so distant that no telescope

has yet beheld them.

Yet their touch is ointment,

their taste is honey

slicking your manubrium.

See how the hollow in your throat

becomes the blue sky

where your face floats

like a nest of flames?

Wolves are howling in your blood

so quietly, tenderly,

because they feel the moon

between your eyebrows.

They know that when you love

yourself completely, embracing

your pain, a tremor
of pure and boundless light,

all the trees in the forest,

all the feathered folks and furred,

the finned and scaly with
fire in their eyes, infants unborn

and ancestors deeply awake

in the loam, will feel protected

by your breath.