Wired

I wasn't wired for non-duality.
I was wired for longing.
Something soft and musky
draws the moth to the milkweed.
Root sap rises
into stamen and pistil
so that they can ooze it.
We ooze what we seek.
The night is scented and cool.
But it's the dew on the jasmine
that makes the air so sweet.
Through the full moon's face
we gaze at the sun until dawn.
Whatever is dark or bright 
is your Beloved's veil.
Without this gossamer difference
love would ferment no tears
and taste like nothing.
You need a little salt.
Therefor, be restless.
Honor your yearning.

The One cannot repose
without becoming Two
and seeking its own kiss
in amazing otherness.