The night sky
could almost kill me
with its weight of
of blindness and
flame—
so much time and
space and
erupting stillness
falling to a
world never ready
for real secrets,
each star an epoch
encased in
crackling ice,
each an ancient death
too beautiful
to interpret—
one way to be immortal.
I must have been born
a thousand times
in whirling moments
stranded in that
wild and hissing
multitude,
and still, some say
this is all
there is . . .
such captivity
to live in only
what can be seen.
The ant on his planet
of mountains and monsters
believes this is the world.
Also the fish in his
glassy dream.
Also the private cyclone
of the hummingbird—
in its frantic galaxy
it has only
the color of sweetness
to live for.
Also humanity,
believing we are
these bodies we
explore in,
so convinced this
magnificent and
terrifying cage around us
is all we can touch
and good enough.
So where is this vastness,
not beyond,
but within,
and everything . . .
and so much more
than we ever imagined?
Just a turn of
a thought,
a silk thread
of a prayer,
a dusting of something
once believed
and forgotten,
and here it is:
the door, the silence,
the Light, the bliss,
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