THE DELUSION IS NEVER COMPLETE
The delusion is never complete, but, then, again
neither is enlightenment
so the whole issue is inexhaustibly irresolvable
and it’s better to pass beyond both
as seeing exceeds your eyes
or shining exceeds the star
and scuttle that skeletal liferaft
you’ve been making for years
of whatever thresholds the tide washed up.
And some of us are living like secret islands on the moon
thinking one day soon, we’ll be amazed by water,
as the stars that never fall
look more and more like rain.
Or maybe you think the mind is the brain
and you’re nestled into it
like a hibernating toad in the mud
waiting for a flashflood of awareness
to wash you out of yourself
like jewels from a stone crown
into a climacteric of copulation when you are.
And there are doors that long to turn back into trees
and windows that regret
having clarified their supple deserts into glass
and people that have fallen in love like apples with the earth
and give their hearts up like green stars and seeds
to be crushed complicitly.
And words must be said
like blossoms in the root to be heard
but there are people who approach the dark mother
like evil rumours in another room
and burn like antiseptics in the night
to quarantine the light
and keep themselves from catching the cure.
And their lies are born without eyes
though the darkness doesn’t disdain them.
But the radiant point is in all directions
life might be a lonely topic without a mouth
but it’s still the only conversation around
that knows what’s in a name.
And there are great trees
that only put out a single leaf in spring
as if all they had to speak with was a single tongue
one bud for a word
one native language
and they’re hoping to get through another autumn
like you, standing in the doorway,
with everything to say, and no way to say it
like a kidnapped choir.