in danger of becoming
the door to everywhere
that matters, the un- of this,
more here and now than This.
the key to that door
with stamped on it:
I’m not your key,
make one for yourself – from me.
the angel to my incompleteness
I follow but can’t see,
the hem of the opera cloak
at the top of the stairs.
the one ahead
but stand back as the door swings
open to an emptiness
that cancels you, or me.
a bruise to the heart’s root,
the silent stroke,
disturbing nothing,
that leaves nothing undisturbed.
the moon slow-walking
the broken canopy,
a wilderness undressed
I look into.
a reading
I don’t comprehend,
the chonchal arch of your left ear
sticking through your hair.
the sign halfway across
that self effaces.
Mirage, which way
from here?
here always
and beyond me.
This also is Thou.
Neither is this Thou.