Night Moves

Stream sound in the distance below,
while here tonight above the tree line,
swift drifts of silent grey mists gently caress
these darkened hillsides, their fragrant moistures
redolent with the sublime scents of no reference,
all self-evident, not a word waiting to be said —
no, nothing need be said at all, just this:
wavering like a subtle shadow
in the dead of night, I stand before
a burning pile of scrap wood, mute,
with so much still behind me yet to burn.
Vague memories start then sputter out,
leaving me lost again in that no-mind place,
as black as deep space, while the blaze burns on,
illuminating this enormous room for the sake
of waking a waiting heart’s true bloom.
Face in the fire, flames spiraling high,
whys collide in the midst of flight, lithe
neural sprites arrive for the nocturnal rites,
brilliant light brightens into cool black lacquer,
into lovers leaving moon-lit kiss-bites so intense
the blood spills out in sanguine language, wounds
of vermilion with millions, billions of holy mouths
crimson-cooing back throughout the stark night,
in witness to the power of that wooing dark
which births vast galaxies of light.
Now, look:
once the fire has had its way,
in that immensity of empty bright
nothing rises up to be known or owned,
all effort to save or relinquish is vanished,
all movement to modify itself collapses
into a wind-sifted mound of cooling ashes.
Only an echo, like the sound of a bell rung
on a whim – before time, before the day
divided the night, before the thought
of seer, seeing, or seen, before
those schemes — still lingers.
Dreamers, take notice:
when the blanket of mists
are pierced by the morning sun,
nothing of that sound remains –
nothing is remembered.

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