Even Here

From brow to belly She leads you

down a path of diamonds crushed  

mist-fine in midnight wind,

each step love's hunger, which means

you drop another veil.

Now She’s nearer than your name,

her long thin blade of stillness

slicing the past from the future

between heartbeats. 

Her fingers caress your lungs

so gently, so softly from within,

you feel the faintest falling, as if 

what held your breath for aeons

finally releases its grasp.

Until this moment you refused

to enter the nave of your spine

and take the wedding walk 

beneath a dome so black 

it must be the color of silence.

Now you learn the terrible

sweet journey of pathlessness 

from self to self.

In a book with thin gold edges, 

in temple, mosque, and ashram,

You searched for the Beloved,

who wears no sandals, no white robe, 

but the gossamer undergarment  

of your next inhalation.

The Paramour is a vine of roses

on the trellis of your vagus nerve,

more fragrant than your missing rib.

You swam like a minnow in the womb of night,  

She sang to you from every star.

Though her light has not yet reached your body,  

her song is inside you, and you are inside her song.

To embrace your reflection takes courage.

One of you must disappear.

Stop seeking anything special.

This world is made of ashes, love is the fire. 

The wise don’t wait until they go crazy

to start dancing. 

They do it right here, 

in desolation.

Painting: Edward Burne-Jones, 'Love Among The Ruins'