Although by now reduced to ash,
the lingering memory of the Nag Champa
still teases the nostrils with the sublime aroma
of our joyous union’s fragrant chemistry.
The room where the blaze of our love re-ignited
has since then become an incandescent temple
where visitors from the future may collapse
in spontaneous weeping at the mere wisp
of our twined vibration’s signal seeping
irresistibly into their feeling being.
Thrillingly, they will slide
like phantom tourists at a theme park
of the living God from my heart
to yours, yours to mine.
To get the intimate feel of our body,
they must have already perished
to their own.
Tasting such bliss need not be difficult —
one need only persist until desire
reveals its innocent source.
There is a cask of wine waiting there
that no one has ever tapped.
The Winemaker sealed it with a cork
of humility and placed it high on a rack —
it is inaccessible to anyone still haunted
by the stubborn illusion that they are
other than the luscious wine itself.
Permeated through and through
by the intoxication of an open ecstasy,
we’ll blend our radiance together, sinking
beneath incense, wine, and anything
desire can want or intellect grasp.
Nobody will find us until they stop looking,
let go, and fall into that dark unknown.
These hands that hover over your skin
have crushed the starry vineyards into a chalice
of exotic nectar to quench your sweet soul’s thirst.
When I pour this spirit honey into you
we’ll shed these filmy garments
and melt back into stars.
Just past twilight in the floating worlds,
earth-bound angels will fondly gaze
into the new night sky and dream
of us, leaning near to them,