When
you chase after me with your orchestra of expectations, I wander in my
maelstrom, looking for the hurricane center in your eyes, yet I am only finding
us in what clouds express. My heart is crushed in self-containment but sends
out fury, seeking its own mate. Entering your eyes with this storm waging, we
are still cast in these bodies with nervous systems that thunder. Our shared
inquiry simultaneously provides for sleep and observations. Mystical wings form
on the knife’s edge and sparks fly from the grinding wheel of our encounter.
The inner sky is stirring in an impending though combustable point of view. We
are buried in it with our faces turned up. There are acres and acres of
ripening figs as these thoughts rising above us and they have their own kind of
invitation to bondage. It seems we are backed into the box canyon of our
senses, wanting to trump the deathcard with life-action, to coin the sensible
into fury, to feel furled, headlong into the action of the next moment’s splat,
divinely cursing that that is holding us out as separate. We are each other in
the fanfare and confetti of experience. We make love, a recognizable offering
yet eventfulness dooms us to passage. For we are, where the sky is our skin, we
are lightning across to each other. We are gamblers in the sound current. We
make the sky our forever-skin. We feel born there. We are Siamese twins, no
surgery needed, not a phenomenon but an invisible tethering, a spiritual latticework,
unfolding us as our eternal hum above the loudness of silence . . .
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