Lying back after the sweet wreckage
of a good time, I never expected
feathered expectations to rise
from the bed and hover above me
and suggest that hey, this could be
the rest of your life,
you could get used to this…
yes, I lay there
staring at the bird who hung there
like star fire, like remnant Creation,
thinking of past damage, recalling
trust and its dangers, wondering if
whales felt this way the first time
they called to each other
and heard an answer, thinking of
sky and sea as field of possibility,
all things above as below;
there I lay
between all the affirmations
being offered, thinking, thinking,
not heeding the exhortation and model
of acting beyond thought
or moving into consumption as fire moves,
leaping from fuel to fuel everlasting;
and still I lay there saying to myself
that so much had happened
that trust in the moment was shocking,
that what was stirring here was electrocution
in waiting, not caring that nature
was apparent, not realizing that artificial doubts
were ready to be discarded, there below perfect wings
and above the long permanent calling of mate to mate
as on high and deep below spoke to me
of what should be;
I lay there in that hardly turned bed,
resting soft against the body of another
and said, finally, that this was not another
but part of me, and to turn from her
was to deny and turn from myself, to deny
the voice saying
hey, this could be
the rest of your life, this could be
worth getting used to, this call you’re hearing
is the voice of the possible asking to be born,
these wings are the transport you’ve awaited
since the beginning, the night is turning to dawn,
the dawn to day, the whole of all is opening,
the beginning is here…
and I turned back against her in agreement
and slept without thinking until we both awoke.
Dark Matter 