Inside my cylinder breast an aeon goes on,
coral fires are crackling out,
delving into darkness and weaving all the lantern
lovelies into a candelabra of hanging
attractions; soft wonder air there is no ferry that
will take us; internal makeshift
Magi traveling westward
hunting for the yoke of living; I am forgiving,
I am letting go of what I can not own and
stumbling to the foot of a tree I am hungry,
craving for a redeemer who came to me
on that day, as a park bench and an old woman,
as a sea foam sky and as a crying and as
a hand settled on my knee saying,
“Trust your pain, that’s were the truth lies.”
Splintered out like a shot raven,
feathers curling out like wildfire and surrendered,
head down and eyes to the upside-down of
need, I realize, there is no empty quite like wanting
when there is nothing to be received. The only
answer that remains is to give up wanting, and to
do the deed you were put here to do. Hah.
Yes. Just like that.
Fire recedes.
A lick of thumb and out goes the light,
and it feels good, to be in emptiness fine.