What is there to speak of
when identity includes
all things?

Generalities flowing
in breathless currents, drowning
        these hollow perceptions
        and empty comforts
        in wondrous depth --

Who is this "myself" but
attachment to a cage, a cage
that scarcely contains the force
  of conviction, the assault
       of passion?

Time the river of blood
flows upstream to source
in a pregnant oblivion
obscuring abortive abstractions,
   carelessly dreamt.

Something rages,
ever watchful. Whence
comes this terrible Eye? Whither
does it sleep, sparing
its awful gaze
and the hallucinations
of unceasing desire,

But in every bed?