Out of the volcano of powdery love, and ashen death,
There, cabbaged together into the sensitive nothing
which becomes darker than the sun at midnight
which stirs prayer to the mute gods hiding behind the crests of clouds
which makes me yearn to join them,
to vaporize and float above
the conversation, the city, the world
Instead I curl up, into the shape of a young rose
Tightly wound: arms round bare knees round broken fingers
round twisted toes, round bleeding ego
and tenderly pink all over
And now you arrive like a dread Jupiter,
but tentative and no longer fearsome
Asking about dreams and where to hang one’s coat
and about what happens in a meadow at dusk?
What else can I say as the stars watch intently?
How else could I respond as the trees whistle a green song
as the birds snore and blades of grass dance
And the hearts of chipmunks beat to the tempo of hummingbird wings
How else but a thousand times yes?
Yes until all the roses of the world unfurl
Yes until time is meaningless and space is relative
Yes until we find ourselves cupped in the hands of resurrected curiosities,
and intertwined like the trellis that stands between what is and what could be
And even this yes now seems inadequate
