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.

PATRICK WHITE