Bunch of grapes discarded on this kitchen table
-the one with the repeating stain-
most are eaten - stalks empty, a network
of promise redeemed-
and I would throw them here
-into the great recycler-
but he saw that they were good
and this one browned,
yet fresh enough as seed of life
and Eden-sweet kisses my mouth.
Strangers, these learnings, my love,
arising in forms we learned to need
repeating themselves
circles spiralling outward,
increasingly apparent
- and here we are -
again burning love and endings
and the simple trick
of opening in a space between.
Yearning the sacred forms
in them unfurling
as illusion melts and we curl
through corridors of betrayal and
grief composed etheric-
noticing
the irreverance of change, as we
by fainter dissolving
become caricatures of ourselves.
In this moment of taste
before love is wastened
and ignored and truth
(stampeded by campaign)
must release her young-
find pain embedded in a first embrace
as trance-like and human
we live it out again.
Here, on our knees in
simple permission
of human undoing-
not being anything at all,
nor grasping at form,
nor creating galaxies anew,
but collapsing in silence deep,
that held us in ways given before
we ached to be forgiven.
