Sunday, October 31, 2010

You Come To

You come to the home of Lao Tzu, where
even though there are no ornaments
you're weeping about the beauty.
You come to a very wide place,
to the One whose face you don't see,
and you're weeping.

You come to a mountainous peak
when the moon has waned
and waned and the circle of her visage breaks
at your weeping. You come to feel
what T'ai Chi calls dan tien,
the warmness and the full, close body;
being pregnant with your weeping,
like a many-petalled constellation of soft red suns
lifting their feet
and turning into the sea.

You come to realize that love is a void
into which is drawn the world;
again, weeping.

You come so close to the edge of you that, O!
the tension aches pleasure and the loss
shines momentously, but you retain
your balance for sake of your weeping.

You're sitting beneath the parkway
on a long piece of ratty carpeting
beside a concrete shelf on which a cabinet rests,
one empty drawer marked Clothes,
the other Books;

you're weeping


"Where was this when I was homeless?"


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