Wine, scattered sheets heavy with ink and ambition,
and the flicker of candlelight against restless, prowling thoughts—
only these things keep me warm this night,
and then
the silence
before any words are invented
arrives to embrace me.
Time is
and was
and will be,
and now She takes the form of my favorite dream—
the dream of a white sand beach
where I could alight from my oceanic journey
and glut myself on the richness of coconut and crab—
and while She dances across the tops of the playful waves,
She is strong enough
to pull me along toward her until
we meet, are utterly combined.
I have no choice—so hungry am I for birth
I press myself into her, feeling her slick weight
across my eyelids, pressing down
on my brow, her essence running in streams down either side of my mouth,
carving me like the deepest canyon;
only this
gives any light – even
the moon has turned her face away,
who can be so jealously measured by gain or loss,
and the sky is invisible.
Time is simply as She always was—
that empty canvas,
my sail to catch any wind,
space, itself.
Surrounded by Her
the current does not draw me,
the tide no longer pulls.
Some may think the dream has ended,
for appearances.
But that too, is illusion,
for we in our embrace have touched,
we have felt, we have become.
And the silence before
any of these words
is
Eternal.
