How they fall,
how they fall
jeweled flowers from the heavens
adorning the breeze
tessellation of tessellations
reflections of reflections
nestling gently in the dust
at the foot of the mountain
whose peak holds up the sky
A garden was planted to the east
upon a bed of living waters
feeding slowly the fecund earth
the fragrance spreading
to the four corners
and the seven directions
fruit ripening on the vine
the bark of sweet trees
gripping and gasping
as the seasons turn
and the stars burn bright
dancing in their orbit
There was chaos then; free-form
who was to call the song of the spheres
discordant?
To whom could symphony be cacophonous,
to which was the scream one of pain,
to whom was pleasure a growl in the throat,
preference a drop of semen
in our womb?
It is better for man not to have been created, but as we are,
we must account for our deeds
Desire breeds action,
action, consequence
yet the kaleidoscope turns but a millimeter
as distance is reckoned
between two things
and the snake swallows its tail
and so we remember; for are we not sculpted of memory
the contours of experience imprinted
with delicate harshness on the fabric of the cosmos
how bold are we to think ‘there is a home’
and a return
yet beyond thought
we remember
images wrought in gooseflesh
and blood run cold
trembling
the likeness of the form of a presence
eternally other
eternally Me
Dawn is quiet
breaking slowly
and all at once
If you are the lightning, let me be the thunder
If you are the fire, let me be the warmth
If you are the ocean, let me be the wave
If you are the song, let me be the dance
and if you are the Creator, let me hold your hand
as the last lights go out
Dawn is silence
building slowly
and all at once
Will you think
of me tonight?
