singing us through the dreamtime.
It has no mind for our inevitable failure,
our failure to love beyond the dream.
What it sees tonight is this:
under the compelling influence of that
filmy facsimile we imagine embodiment to be,
clinging to a bare high branch on the African plain,
we’re dream-gazing out towards a dim Neolithic sky,
utterly entranced by the shaman’s skin drum echoing
rhythmically in the dark far distance, the steady sound
outside our bedroom window growing richer, clearer.
A full moon tilts across our forehead, gradually revealing
the secret in the drumbeat, the bom bom bom breaking
our ancient mind into shiny fragments of moonlight,
of glimmering grace pulsing inside our heart’s beat,
inside this bedroom, perched atop a bare tree
in a lunar desolation through which only
moon shamans would dare to wander.
And this is the way you found me, a child
of a barren woman, a truly imaginary creature,
floating outside your bedroom window, immersed
in a pulsing, primal euphoria, not really out of Africa
or anywhere we could name, a piece of broken moonlight
that will never be the same — the sudden silence
of the drumming now an empty window frame.
I come from sky, I go to sky,
I go to you, because, even as this
song world turns, there are galaxies
beyond our ken evolving life forms whose
singular destiny is coincident with one beam
of clear white light, our light, spiraling on through
fathomless time, reflecting neither presence
nor absence, nor evidence that anything
ever really happened, miraculous,
confounding, or mundane –
just a smear of sudden brightness
against a blue-black background, painting
itself with the stinging poetry of evanescence,
our beginning and end in one flash, one seamless
streak, like the slightest wisp of a still-breathing
something, gently, gently exhaling . .