Razed

His greatest alchemy

is how he undoes

the binding

that keeps love from breathing

deep.

He loosens the chest.

                                                Rumi

moon, there’s the mist

again.  Up from the river

up from the sea

that always,

 this one at least,

flows north,

  It's our own personal

 Nile.

Some mornings

I’ve come to wonder

if I need to be

pinched

by sound

or some sifted scent

to bring you here,

before the Lazarus

in me will turn to the mouth

of the tomb

and feel his feet

begin to itch.

Whole suns, somewhere,

are exploding.

But who has noticed?

Who has turned

their head up to it all

and ached

when the remote

solar breath

breaks apart their bone

stones, and then settles

beneath, inside of them,

pushing up the seed? 

This stark glint

inside the cleft

  is ageless.

I’m not sure

 how to absorb to its

brevity.

Is it light?

Sound?

 Or something more

solid? A paused

 pair

of lips

whose glossed edges

are eager

to be kissed

before they speak?

Or is it a deeper

penetration

entirely,

liquefying everything,

 even the ‘come forth’ call,

until the darkening

of space

and then the full wind enters

and is spilled

And is stilled.