Soft Spot

From the soft spot in your crown
to the sap-dripping root of your spine
runs a nerve down whose core
the lightning bolt hums.

Let that blue fire incinerate your mind.

How could a single thought arise
in such spaceless brilliance?

Kali will guide you.
Reason is not required.
Your backbone is her wand.

We are all sparks
thrown off from that burning neuron
at the center of the soul:
Song of the wood thrush,
tangle of devil's claw,
sunbeams frozen at this end
into mountain tops...

Vagabond comets, crazy angels
gazing over the edge of entropy
at horizons of derelict light
curved in a morning dewdrop
on a blade of alfalfa.

Words like 'You' and 'I'
have been scorched into silence
by wonder.
Nothing remains but swirling cinders.
We no longer call it 'death.'

Grasping the enormity of the disaster,
we know that we cannot control
this laughter that creates the world.