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Metempsychosis

You happen to me
like breath on a mirror
A vanishing shape in the fog
You are a whisper
among beating drums.
A tribal rhythm of dusty heels.
Something primitive clawing
on the shore.
Something primitive in me.
Between ventricle and atrium.
You are a ghost in my veins.
I let you out
to stand on the tip of my tongue
where you taste in me
the syrup of need.
And I hear, through you,
the melody of want.

No steps to take,
no map to here
Words blast heat
fusing the dreams
of our poems.
Leaving rhythms
for us to dance
like the feathers we are
on this breeze.
Two spirits in the mist
Reincarnated, we share atoms.
Collided and blinking truth,
beads of life skip,
suspended in sky,
like dust kicked up from
primitive heels.
This is the most I can be;
a splash of light
on the altar of an empty church.

And I ask you to sing to me
again, as I drift off to sleep.
Waiting on my dreams. 

Comments

  1. SandyCarlsonJanuary 31, 2010 at 5:19 AM

    I imagine this poem whispered to a beloved, one soul to another, yet the same soul. I see the feathers.

    What an incredible way to begin Sunday--with that light on the altar.

    ReplyDelete

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