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I read of a mystic who, as a child,
fell backwards, his endearment
for creation needing to race
beyond the boundaries
of his body, when he looked up
and witnessed the dark underbellies
of flying geese framed against the sickly
verdant clouds of a thunderhead.

I nearly fell over myself tonight
looking up and witnessing the black
veins of the Pin Oak framed against
the city's navy orange overcast.
But I stopped myself long before
a full tumble because I worried
what the neighbors might think.

The grace of creation is always there
to be witnessed, and courage
is the good sense to put the miracle
of belonging well before the loss.
For the first time since Mid-March,
when I reached the end of my drive
at the start of an early night's walk,
I looked up and actually saw the moon
and the stars. That is to say, the lights in my eyes
intimately explained their cold journeys
across the sky's expanse, so the moon
and the stars are more complete now
because I see them, and my body
is more complete now because it
has been touched by the dedication
of creation's brightest fires.
I understand fear as the worship
of the suffering bound to come,
and I understand fearlessness
as the respectful nod of recognition
traversing the spaces between
luminous creatures all prepared
to perish so long as the love continues.
We've all heard the sonorous brook
use water, stone, bank, and gravity
to tell some lovely stories.

But I'm angry and wise now,
so the other day, I actually
heard it tell the truth -

That god has no power,
but god does walk with full mercy
deep into our dark cloud of suffering.
All days are bright, all days are warm and gentle.
There is no distance between myself and the most enviable
lapping of the surf along the shore, because you are here.
How does the miracle happen? Consider my heartbeat
without yours. Consider my thump, and your thump
not coming together under the skin, and here arrives
another thump, another drumming, a falling and rising
and falling and splashing. We have replicated the vocation
of the oceans, and our creation knows that he knows,
and what does he dare do with this knowledge -
he laughs. There is no greater proclamation of love
pulsing among any of the wild beasts of the deep.
I’m confident you are bolted
to your deathless beauties.
I know mine are always
there - purple, nighttime,
desert, floating,
cloak, sickle,
luminous, wall,
minaret, wailing.

You see, our pleasure
serves the divinity,
and our fluids
have instincts
to drench every
permanent icon
in a flooding rain
of freedom adored.
The Song of Emmanuel
scents the room
and I am heart broken
as protection has been mine
since my first days,
but still, you and I live
through our days of body
and the abandonment
of those before us
and the abandonment
of those not come.
He did not come.
She did not come.
But we are here
with our beautiful arrivals
and our beautiful endurances
and we live through
the days of our body, and this
dark night, we say farewell.
A song of lamentation I wrote for Christmas Eve after a year of many losses.
You can get to the light
through the darkness,
but your chances
aren't very good.

So I think I'm going to
call off my campaign
against all the beautiful ones
who are not possessed by me.
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