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A Taste of Night


The Beloved said, 'Drink my cup.'
'What does it contain?'
'The ferment of namelessness.'
So I sipped the liquid void
effervescing with silence
and tasted the ruins of the moon
with a finish of starless night.
I sipped again, the black goddess
swam up the river of my spine
with fins of fire.
A third taste, and I became nobody.
'Now you know who I Am,' said the Beloved
whose eyes were secret passageways
from temple to forest.
I gazed, beheld the abyss, and fell
into pavonine emptiness, rainbow desolation.

Now I dwell with the Beloved
where flames go
when you snuff them out.

Refrain


A flower does not need to win.
A raindrop never wonders,
"Am I improving?"
Evening breezes travel
nowhere.
The moon makes
no progress across the night.
Creatures erupt into what they are,
sometimes softly,
sometimes with the fury
of a thousand suns.
If I say,
"Everything is perfect,"
I miss the point.
It is enough to say
that each vanishing particle
is immaculate.
A flower does not need to win.
When you are ready
for peace on earth,
all you need to do is
refrain from being right.