Between the hammer and the anvil,
I am white hot
Hay-colored and molten,
Dripping **** along the jagged edges
Of steel night highways.

In agony, in search,
I trace the valleys' shadowed thighs,
Run my fingers through all creeks, all rivers,
Remembering the forgotten taste of her,
Her sigh within all trees, in the grasses.
At night, under stars,
Weaving in and out of dreams, Far from the woodsmoke and fire
Dying in an ocean of hemlocks and ash.

Awake-dreamer-Emptiness itself seeking
Over fields, stone barns, abandoned churches,
For the face that holds everything.
The compass of the universe spins
Around her navel, her cheekbones, her eyes

I am pulled inexorably,
Ever tighter toward that center.
We dance on a fine silk brocade—
There are cities, trees, stars—
And suddenly, we fall through.


From the Wilderness,
Into the gaping dark dazzle of infinity.
Now, I speak only what can be spoken with all Being—
A reflected balance on the edge of the mirror,
The knife-blade plunge of honey-colored sunsets
Somewhere in the galaxy between her ribs,
The flame to its moth.