Look! Scarlet mushrooms
nippled in rotted dahlias,
crinkled leaves in moon silence,
harpsichords of dew
chiming their destiny of ice,
tiny omens of oblivion,
weightier than summer.
Thus do the angels of frolic
scatter their keys before you!
Open your nostrils now, your throat
to the sacred odor of spoil.
Don't be afraid to root in the putrid
rind and peel, spent tea and wizened
roses, webbed in veils of ghostly mold.
Find wisdom, go to the ruined garden,
where no waste is and beauty makes
use of the useless.
Ponder the calligraphy of worms.
Enter whatever is empty.
In the sepulcher of an ulcerous gourd
smell your way beyond the shroud.
Gaze into a spider’s web, that
fretwork of desolation, window
to your own abyss. Become
thistledown threaded in a breath
of November sky, careless where
you root. Follow one
commandment: Be ye perfect,
ever arriving exactly where
you are, precisely at the moment
you get here.