you are calling me

language is always a mind-call first

and feelings sit in silence, 

somewhere in that same room.

there is always the suicide

of trying to say how or what I feel,

like a parade marshal of the mouth

will lead me to the emotional promised land.

I want to be the tranquil pool 

that your eyes come not to see

but to rest their vision upon.

I want to be that one sigh you take

that settles you from turmoil's grasp.

if I could get out of my wardrobe of edginess

and just beam a presence for you to rest upon

that would be a self-miracle to me

in the giving, I would want to offer.

I don't want dance to exemplify.

I want stream to be our immersion.

I don't want agreement to become a haunting memory.

I want the essence of simpatico 

to be a reveal of us.

I don't want flame for the heat

as much as I want flame for the elemental con-fluency,

as the coalesce, after the loss of separateness.

I want secrecy in bloom

after the shelf-life of mystery is gone.

I want truth without any frame of comparative reference.

I want to take off the 'I' of me

and never look back to wonder.

I want no name, no parts, no knowledge, that claims.

I want my lips sealed as open endless sky.

I want beyond what recognition offers.

I want to leave speech and say,

for the one sound, the one hum 

that is of everything that we are,

that we all are.

and you are my invitation, 

calling me, 

to there . . .