The moon hangs on a branch among falling blossoms -
what is left among what scatters.

The music of creation resounds in the silence of your chest -
I will be there, a swimmer in the blood

with all your unborn children, listening tenderly,
interpreting your tears, distilling the distant stars.

Take this breath, let it go.
Gratitude is the answer to every question.

It takes you to a silence where questions don't arise,
and the Beloved whispers,

'Loss will teach you everything.'

Last Caress

At the least caress of wave on warm sand, 
asymptote where breath ebbs, breath begins,

here, t'shuvah, the turning,
where the vacuum births a photon,

ayin soph, trembling darkness
in the fractal dew of meeting lips,

stain of the rose on a blade of moonlight,
lingering pulse, a free-fall in the chest,

a lover's glyph in the poem of the body
at the meld and melting of gazes,

two and not two cerulean dilations 
of uncreated light, your eyes,

a wedding in the presence of the master,
mouths to the cup, never to thirst again.


Flesh, a vehicle, breath a vehicle, mind a vehicle.
Who is the traveler? Where is she going?

Departure and arrival are rehearsals
for some sweeter stillness beyond air.

Where you desire to be, my love, you are.
How could you conceive a place you have not visited

in death, in dreams, or at the farthest end 
of exhalation? The traveler is the goal of her journey.

Discard these wheels, these wings, this movement 

called wanting. Now, with nowhere to go, 

use your feet to whirl. The destination
is dancing where you are.


As the brain evolves, nature selects forgetfulness.
Those of us born too stupid to recall the past,

those of us who mutate toward the irrepressible
song of the present moment, like witless thrushes

anciently feathered for a dance
survive, the chosen, favored by a love too vast

for any plan, trilling to the sky that random
unremembered melody of the first day....

Remain Single

May the part of you that never gets married wed every lover on earth; the ceremony is bewilderment.

Marry the honeysuckle and wild rose, marry the sound of a bumblebee in a late afternoon sunbeam.

All through the black hours be wooed by the incoming tide; then consummate your silence with sunrise.

Though One and Two were never betrothed, marry the confusion.

Your engagement ring is the uncut diamond hidden in a vein of sorrow; polish the gem your chest with tumbling tears, until the water is quiet.

Neither give nor receive that brilliance in marriage; stay single, remain voluptuous.

Those who never knew this gratitude, where questions simply don't arise, will ask how one virgin satisfies so many paramours. 

Don't tell them that the true bride is an exhalation of surrender, a golden body of breath stretching into fragrant darkness.

Don't tell them that this silver-crowned gift-laden inhalation is the groom, who enters the garden through your open gate of prayer. 

Don't tell them how we meet in moonlit stillness; the heart is a lake on which there seem to be twin swans.

But this is one white-feathered splendor, settling gently into its reflection, on the wedding night that never ends.