tonight I float in warm water,
suspended in Your loving arms.
You are the radiance
of Light made flesh, so happy,
your smiling, languorous serenity
uncorrupted by history, experience,
knowledge, preference, or regret . . .
Reception, release, reception, release –
that is the way Love circulates,
this living ritual of only
Yes, we are alive, inexpressible –
this fluidity yielding, flooding deep
in bliss before the saying of it,
saying what can’t be said,
we say, Yes, Yes . . .
The entwined aromas of all language itself
gradually evolve towards the flowering
bouquet of this intoxicating perfume,
the scent of our submission
to the wordless heart
of Yes, Yes . . .
Yes, we forsake all obsolete stories
such as separation and even union
by becoming our own unsaying,
and thus a humble offering
of silence, of eternal rest
in the inevitability
the breathing sigh of a world without end,
the first and final call of here and now,
the original word before any world,
before one word is heard, one
word breaking on a tongue
like no tomorrow, no
yesterday, just this –
To hear one thing
is to hear everything.
One word is enough.
Before it was a word
You were already enough,
enough to break all tongues
in one ecstatically silent sound.
In that one sound all else is forgotten.
This is the way I remember You,
forgetting all else but You.
All else is but the music You wear,
though You Yourself are Silent.
Yes, I hear You again
as if for the very first time,
though time and place only fill
the space between Your inhalation
and exhalation with an irresistible music
that the world will have no words for:
let there be this,
this bliss, and nothing else.
Let this be what is left of me —
the echoing Yes of Your healing Grace,
the way you slide Your smile across my chest,
weaving Your fingertips of warm woo
in lazy circles of casual delight . . .
and what falls away in this
delicious friction of Your grace
is any slight distinction between my skin
and Your hands, the hands that lifted me out
of myself to become the gift of tender surrender
placed on the altar of Your irresistible loving,
the altar where You have led me to worship
in a puja of our mutual glad annihilation,
here, as this Yes that ushers us into
an unspoken poetry of Presence
and Its joyous permeation,
an alternating current of ecstasy
and stillness, the absence of any
motive to be elsewhere, to be
other than this Yes, this
Ah, Beloved —
there are nights like this
when I can speak of nothing that
makes sense, except that all things
appear inexplicably, despite the politics
of afterthought lulling in and out like waves,
like tidal sirens enchanting us on the beach where
You and I play half-asleep, half-awake, lovingly held
in the oceanic arms of this Silence, newly-born sensations
slipping in and out from no starting point, breathing,
eye to eye with our original mystery, the fluency
of some lilting language, so strange,
yet so familiar, the whispered
murmurs of Yes, Yes. . .
Our time winds like a wanton breeze around us,
while our thoughts drift lazily over deep blue water,
and so we have become a rolling wave between two coasts,
a paradox of momentum riding the bubble of an enigma,
the natural position from which to share our softest kiss
before we melt back to the elemental emptiness of That
which beckons us with open arms — this night,
this Yes, and all that’s born from Silence.