for Rob Sacks, my dear friend

My eyes were empty graves I dug with my own hands.

Now they are filled with sky.

My heart was a hollow bone with all the marrow eaten out.
Now it is your flute.

What was obvious had been concealed by   I desire and I do not desire.
Now all I want is you.

I hear your voice coming from a vase of yellow peonies swarmed with ants

Do whatever you want.

I hear the waterfall of praise as pine trees stagger in a drunken April wind.

Go to the Master whose robes are not made of hundred dollar bills
whose hands are human hands not flowers
whose smile is full of yellow human teeth.
Go to that Master and kneel  by the flooded river he makes of your own heart.

Now I will wash my feet with tears and dry them with my hair.

Our bodies are condemned at birth.
There is no herb for the dead.
We run, we tire, we stagger under pine trees towards the grinding
but with these hands I borrow from the dead
I will praise the creator and destroyer.

Let my  body have what it deserves:
the embrace of friendship,  the consolation of ecstasy.
In the insufficient light of evening when stars are falling
I give back these empty hands and you give me your hands
in return.


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