the same word as that moment their priest sings the dawn
after hiking up to the same narrow ledge, every morning, for the prayer,
leans his back into the mountain, turns his eyes toward the sea,
until a surge through his body signals the white light of the munse,
the great mother’s doorway, has delivered him into the new day
Just another day, like every day before that…
I want to reach before even that
to that moment God looked up at first dawn,
as she spilled it and all of the universe forth,
and said only, jaw hanging open in awe, “thank you.”
I want to know if the bird sees the dew the same way I do
or if beauty is impossible to see
without knowing its absence intimately.
What I really want to know is,
is this the start of everything, really,
that God looking up from her work and being stunned,
and the god tending her, being stunned by that awe,
and her god, and hers, and on it goes,
and goes, and delivers life to itself
a yoni folded over yoni over yoni,
as if it is all, really, existence
kissing itself as it kisses itself
as it releases everything and embraces it
in the big bang of every breath,
every accordion Mandelbrot nautilus galaxy pucker
of every holy sphincter of your life,
Saying no, saying yes, saying oh no,
saying thank you, you don’t have to know
how to carry a tune,
you don't have to know how to draw hands,
all you have to know is
that there is nothing sweeter right now
than gazing a beagle to sleep
while the gold dust mites
nest in his eyebrows.
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