All of the beautiful strangers that I happen to meet
are really no stranger to me than I am to myself.
I hear their chorus of voices, like breezy harmonics,
echoing through trackless space, vaguely familiar,
a remembered dream perhaps, perhaps . . .
Like the soft, intermittent hiss of a wispy wind
on a warm Summer night, a Saturday night
slipping out of time when nobody is looking,
their voices melt into the primordial spaciousness
of this infinite realm, finding a home there,
a place to rest awhile, to just let go.
Then they rise to re-emerge in the plane of time
like a strangely captivating fragrance, un-nameable,
that haunts the nostrils, but with no apparent source,
carried on the same breeze as all voices, hopes, and fears.
In just that way I came to you, breezing around you,
silking you like a light-seeking fluttery night moth,
puzzle pieces of a stranger’s dream coalescing
into the single mute voice of all strangers,
happy or sad, living and dead.
No, not a wasted word is spoken,
nor any introduction boldly proffered,
just a sudden brush of lips against your cheek,
and then your head turns, our eyes meet,
meet in the dark of the darkest heart,
the Source itself that makes everything shine,
and the thrill of you loving my lips on your lips,
my skin on your skin, is beyond any knowledge,
beyond even desire, but not strange at all,
no, not strange at all.