ar•tic•u•la•tien

your body is
the poet’s voice
the painter’s brush
the musician’s instrument
your body sings
of all your tongue
is too clumsy to share
of passionate subtlety
and the darkness of the well
of bridled desire
and the vast freedoms of living
one more day

your body articulates
the unconstructed self
naked as a flame
straining to penetrate
aching to personify revelation

your body is
your voice
and is never silent
not even in death
which is, to begin with,
your initiation into
the insatiable chorus

Gravity is a Circle

Gravity is not only for galaxies and stars
in their slow circular descent
like marbles in a drain
not only for worlds and cold stone
slow dancing into seeming stillness
not only for death which begins calling
all things from the moment of creation
exerting destiny without exception
so that living and dying are synonymous

can you feel it now, gravity,
in the way your foot falls to the earth with each new step
or in the way your eyes find it easier to close
and also, in the way your heart beats faster
when you descry a voice on the wind or catch the scent of the night rain

I know that gravity entreats upwards as forcefully as it drives down
Because I have felt the pull of a single human imagination,
and I, irresistibly drawn in, like Pandora, like Eve
drawn in by you dear artist
(for what else should i call one so generous with her vulnerabilities and oceanic in her curiosities)
drawn in by the promise of divinity
how shall I inscribe the ‘falling into the sun inevitability’ of our brief moment
how i have burned to withdraw my own masks
how I have cascaded into the boundless question
learning the satisfying taste of never ending hunger
and the quiet strength of the unknown

we find ourselves, once again, pulled into the massive center
where even light is too heavy to shine
and our human heart is pressed like a collapsing sun
once again, we are being drawn through the veil
contracting in preparation
for the next great leap,
a prelude to the inexorable dance