Friday, July 3, 2015


The card you gave me, your small handwriting

on the back -- is gone. But the deep black ink

of the artist’s drawing pen stayed with me,

and the ancient couplets became the dark

that holds the living organs, the same dark

through which the deer runs, giving off thin smoke

as it seeks the stream. I enter that dark

now in sleep, and I hear you: What you bear,

I will like my own body bear and tend.

I will be the breath in the animal

that pants and whose heart chants through it,

that burns like the one fire in a night camp,

and that departs from the night where it thirsts

to find the waters when the sun appears.

All this time you have been the one in me

who arrives and stands with me at the stream,

where I seem to sleep instantly, my breath

unseen rungs that lower me down. The wound

in the deer is memory of waters

and allows the deer to bow, drink. Ripples

in the quick flowing melt me. Whatever

my desire is, here it finds the change. I wake

burning but becoming dark and more dark

and moving through the touch of water. Wake

within pure explanation: I am what

I come to, and always I come to you --

to know you is to want like fire, water,

to remember the first fire, first waters.

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