We don't create this world of laughter and weeping.
It's poured into our cup at the wedding.

We're not the center of creation:
we're the tilt and wobble that makes
the spinning finally come to rest.

No heart beats itself: something else
whips us like cream into this sweetness
and dollops a little of us onto everything.

Don't be a guest, be the feast.
The host will fill your cup again and again.

He’ll whisper your name and remind you
of that summer night

when you couldn't tell the difference
between moonbeams and your fingers,
bees and pollen.

You were planted then: you burst open now.
The sign of recognition

is falling inward
from a great height,
and never reaching
the bottom of the grail.

(A poem from my first book, 'Wounded Bud.')