This writing has undone me,
peeled away my knowing
and my nonsense,
and led me way out
way out
from the edge
to where there are no shadows,
to where the clear light
is visible in every direction,
to where the wind is always scented
by the horizon–
in hues of timber and sunlight,
in copal, cedar, and jasmine.
Some days flowers fall from the sky,
but no matter.
What would it matter?
I remember there was a shoreline,
somewhere we moved in circles once–
little spiders crawling all over
and around each other
underneath the sun,
always dragging lines of silk
from here to there,
trying all day to politely
undo the knot.
Now it’s like this:
nothing but a line of weathered faces
with soft black eyes
set into the wind,
all of us walking this trail
towards the…
(I don’t know…)
The shape of the human shoulder–
it could be enough for one day,
could lead to weeping.
Like the taste of a single, shriveled berry
drawn out from the pouch.
Out here it becomes obvious:
the ones who mean the most
are everywhere.
Sometimes we can hear
each other’s silence,
and when we rest,
we know to sit in a circle.
You think sometimes…
while you still can…
(before it fades entirely…)
of what was…
of going back…
to the shoreline…
to the boxes and glass…
It’s a thought…
Just that.
Like putting on a really old sneaker.
Crusty and awkward.
Stars half-way burned
sometimes tremble
at their own given audacity,
and ponder returning to the darkness,
but also realize:
the only route remaining
involves giving everything away.
The first steps are always tentative.
You start out alone, excited maybe–
frightened, purposeful.
You have an idea of it.
Eventually none of that matters.
You’re pulled out into the open.
You’re starving, wounded as the light itself.
You find footsteps, others…
You know to form a circle,
to keep your faces into the wind,
to walk in a line.
At first, Jesus was just on my bookshelf.
Hafiz was like a buoy,
on the border,
bobbing in the waves,
an invitation…
Love dropped on a wire
down from the sky,
crawled all around me,
weaving in silk.
When I was bound,
they hid inside my tears
so I could taste them.
One drop at a time.
Never too much at once.
This writing isn’t writing at all.
It’s just what brought me out here,
where we pass through one another,
far beyond
the possibility
of ever
going
back.
