That Space, That Garden

That tangible centre of busy tenderness,
            that slim

obverse side.

            The dead go back there too.

They watch us from there; they mirror us.  They circle around us

to see.

            They join together

the light of time, time's open mansions, always moving,
its wovenness,
its overflowing resonance at the zenith
of nakedness achieved:  this pleasure that returns,


This radiant

happiness.        This laughter, underlying,
and its brokenness.

-Like a source, an amulet.  The hidden fountain
of a garden.

This little garden, this rapture
we inherit
like clear melody in the night, like a glimmer,
                                                a question,

this body


and its thirst.

-From there they speak to us,
from there they call us, as in dreams.

                        From one dream to another

they carry us.

From one dream to another they draw us,     letting us be seen.

Like the very faintest features in a landscape.
Like breaths.    From one dream to another we look for
solidity:    this fire

that enthralls, that lasts.
This passion which takes root,
that whisks away,   and its boundless counterpoint,
this feeling that grows.

            They join together
the light of time,    time's open mansions, always moving,
their passable labyrinths, their encompassing  happening

This breath,
this sap, primal, that reveals, that envelops us
like waves,

as a harmony.               These intimate outlines.

-A quick turning of glass.        -A rim of light.

A texture.         A word.

            -Because death's crowns
are  rooted
in life's full heart

                                    and in them it burns

in them it yields,                        in them it joins

in matter.

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