breaking bread with the flesh itself.
I Am not here to move you out of yourself -- only closer to God.
The mystic must balance the obvious with the mysterious
so as to make music the mortal and the plaintiff can hear
willing to let love lubricate even the most obstinate, limp and longing ossicles
My dear
your single word -- for which there are an oracle of euphemisms, pronouns, nicknames, curse words and letters omitted for their sacredness
my Dear One
who deafens me with beauty
I have lost my longing, at your single gesture toward my heart
I can no longer say I am hungry
yet
I still starve, in the magnificent spaciousness of my own practiced separation
You are here, if I but offer you a place to sit, or a single intention
and yet my suffering
is profuse
because
I keep the obvious mysterious, even to myself.
Oh burden of burdens, awaken me to the greatest depth of fear, so that I might surrender all this loot, to those mighty angelic thieves
allow me to beat my breast in epiphany, when struck dead,
I turn into You
and no lack lingers
no sugar sours the most obese sweetness.
My Love,
it is you
I sing to.
my cello, just a humble lute, still chanting another name
but, it Knows You
by the thundering pang of your orbit
all sounds, become tin kindling
each spice, like a blade of grass grown to be cut again
My Love
all that I have is a wooden leg to put on your fire
and having done so, can finally dance
Your Beloved
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