Life is not one thing in me.
I am looking into a cauldron.
Is that what I will be someday,
I ask?
All those faces.
They depend on me to answer,
but my lips are tight.
Pain puts me in a place.
Prayer loses me.
Memory is my imagination.
Hold me, my beloved.
My geography is you.
I have no place to go except your center.
The puzzle that I am
is what a wing has moved
and left behind.
Daylight passing strange.
A poem composing itself.
A love that does not wear out.
A frustration
to be removed from where
my soul is standing.
I want to be inside my beloved.
To be the ache of life
refusing to die,
and not lose the scenery
that is heaven in what I see.