To My Muse

All that matters is the kiss of pistil and stamen.
All that matters is the wave nature of the moon
All that matters is the sexual caress
of listener and silence, thrill in stillness
where the music is conceived.
All that matters is the death of distance,
the sapphire yearning-pool
where the sky in your forehead drowns
my dark embryo again and again.
Are we not born in each others sorrow
as tears of joy?
This is the gift of emptiness,
and all that matters is the touch
of your breath pouring in
from the desert night across the sea,
where stars arrange themselves tenderly
over your slumber,
and my breath ebbing
into the diamond blackness
that is always awake.