Exquisite One, at rest
on the green couch, inhaling,
exhaling, surrounded by the guardians,
timelessly adrift in their smiling embrace . . .
I sit before you, watching you as you sleep.
The heart’s true satisfaction – it is always here.
We’ve swung through doors, we’ve met again.
Nothing has changed, yet everything is new.
These forms we’ve assumed for the Dance du Jour
will peel away at our merest touch, revealing
the secret the guardians keep, the one
that keeps them always smiling.
All quest for confirmation spontaneously abandoned,
you’ve effortlessly reclined to vanish into yourself,
while the Traceless sits awake, aware.
Any space between us – just some old idea.
You, leaning slightly off balance, the newspaper
gently clutched in your hands made of Light –
Ah, when I am touched by your hand,
touched by your hand . . .
There is a white candle
I lit on the table before you.
I am that burning, at the tip of that flame
I touch you, where the seen and unseen interpenetrate.
Dishes done, kitchen swept while you nap,
and now you slowly open your eyes,
you look up, smiling like dawn,
like sunrise in Paradise:
we say “I love You”
at just the same time —
we always tell each other the Truth.
Exquisite One, I am a dead man.
I have come through that door to be with you,
to fall and break again with you upon the long sky
of our own flashing light, this pouring paramatman light,
streaming down to lift the forms of light we are
into a luminosity so vast, so unbounded in its beauty,
that we have no choice, taken by the pull of our own light,
loving it, lifted out of words and what they can’t say,
still saying it, over and over and over again —
my Love, my Love!
Your light is that kind of medicine,
elegantly trickled into a dead man’s mouth:
this dusty corpse yawns and stretches,
rises up with mouth billowing yellow marigolds,
swirled round in desire’s dance, drunk deep of desire,
desire at last exceeded by itself in the wheeling roundness
of its own momentum, tuned so tautly now, trembling
on the threshold of itself till something serenely
slides into itself, vastness impregnating itself
with sheer delight, with Yes to Yes,
nothing less, not even this.
Exquisite One, although the city sleeps,
this eternal sobhet continues.
Those only know, whom She lets know.
We’ve cast off the stupor of knowing’s burden
with a grateful sigh — all past stories rendered obsolete,
the impartial gears of this compassionate totality
softly crushing into languorous synch, a wink,
a dare, a destiny duet on pink-pillowed dawn,
and in the near distance, twin peacocks’
sudden thrilling cries of
echo throughout this palace of ashes
we’ve made of ourselves in our sublime incineration.
Ashes won’t return to tinder, nor we go back to sleep.
The rippling notes from the peacocks’ throats
waken heaven and earth with pure joy.