Last night the Beloved and I changed
the Rules of Engagement:
I agreed to stand quietly and listen.
She agreed to do do the rest.

She blindfolded me.
She rolled me up in a sail
that came with its own ocean.
She hung me upside down from the ceiling-
(you know, like a carcass)-
and pulled the plug.

The door latched behind her as She left the room.

Click.

My concepts took their cue and
spilled out like jelly beans and
clattered onto the floor-
a bouncing potpourri of colors and flavors.

I was emptied of all my coins.

A piggy bank like that will sit and wait for a thousand years,
expectant and hollow-
an out of circulation volume,
the vestibule of an abandoned house
the diffuse morning light still visits,
simply to illuminate.

A nightingale landed and began to sing.
Then it flew into my hollow volume and built a nest.
Another one came, and the warble
of babies danced in my throat.
The little ones walked around in me, ticklish as feathers,
and when they were ready, flew out like little darts into space.

I learned what it was to have something grow inside of you.

For longer than you can fathom,
I heard the sound of water dripping,
one drop at a time.
I could tell there was ice melting off the side of a mountain
and falling ten thousand feet into a half-filled coffee can,
making a dollop sound that rang me like a bell.

I was all rolled up in a sail, hanging from the ceiling.
I forget if I told you that or not.

When She came back she pulled up a chair.
She leaned in close and put words into me
from a Language I don’t speak.
They crawled around like ants looking for a place to burrow.
An orchid grew out of my ear, with roots that
wound down through my veins and into my heart.
A star was born and set in my heavens.

I was shown a scene of you and I, happy.

She put her hand over my heart,
and returned me to our world.
I move through it now in delicious pain;
I have become a light-emitting wound.

Oh, how I want to tell you all the things I feel!
Could they be real?
They live in another time.  They are like bats-
always out flying when my dream reels are projecting.
I try to tell you-
Oh, how I try to tell you all the things I feel!

But everything crashes,
trips on itself in a stampede on the way out,
is compacted in my throat
in a welling up of parched desire.  I gasp-
I croak hoarsely,
my wound freshly torn,
new light pouring out all around,
if I say anything at all.

We are so close.
Could I have a glass of water?

I want to try and climb inside of you and
whisper words from a Language I don’t speak,
because the language I do speak keeps shattering.
It is so damned useless.

Have you ever tried carving ice with daffodils?

Inside of me a great wind is continously flowing, and I am flying-
but each day in this world is like recovering from a stroke
(of genius), or from a birth.  I’m receiving advice daily on how to walk.

I’m standing on street corners for too long, just listening.

Maybe I am not ready for this-
I don’t even know what this is.
I need you to understand me for this-
to understand this for me.
I need you to live in me to make this whole.
You are this, and I am this,
and yet we do not know the other.

This is the great tragedy of the world.

I am rolled up in a sail, hanging from the ceiling.
You are with me there.  That is all I can say for sure.