And the Two Give Birth to the Myriad
of Things
--said Lao-tse, sage of waterfalls, who
knew how the courtly heart keeps trying the world.
Heart wants only the good: dreams like a glass
harmonica, ringing light's measures. Love like art
if art could grow from seed, unfolding the code
inside it. But what the mind has sundered
cannot stay long uncluttered. Innocent heart, I
think, good heart, it wants, wants just now good
hands to coax my shoulders loose. What are we
birthing, when one thing leads to another,
two swimming the body's heat together?
If you want to know how the Way makes
a world, desire. But if you want to know the Way,
want nothing. A tall order, either way, worse
in the wanting not to want, as if desire can only
redshift like the galaxies who fly from us, who never
knew us. The distant water insists on falling inward,
to earth, to hell with all the stars retreating around us. O
Lao-tse, o Hubble, o love. It all comes down
to the ocean, in time, singing more deeply
the farther it travels. Its bass line thrums
the floorboards, the walls, such slow decay I can't
feel the dust on my skin until he is sleeping.
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