Like absolution of an open space
accepting being back into its fold.
Like the mouth of a thirteen
billion year old snake
swallowing its long-awaited
epilogue.
Like pure awareness clearing
self-awareness
like an early arctic front refining
a boreal climax forest clarity.
Ours not to do or die. Ours but to
rest in self-awareness.
Listen to the red-winged blackbirds
but don't believe a note of what
they sing.
As to the world, the sun thinks not
but loves all.
Sing in the north, return to the
southern self. This is my religion.
Be yourself and don't impersonate
some other.
Make no new fears
but follow that holy mass in mass
intent of burning love.
Dreaming makes all the difference
in this world—
like the loving ouroboric acid of this
lucid dream.
Life is the mystery I am.
Silence tells my story.
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