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oh, how do you say, one more time, zamora.
by Marina Dawnwe greet the body at the end of night.
we know thirst as holy, there. what thirst. to travel
with this-- the body as our art, our work,
the way we practice being; the dream of execution,
the dream again of god.
though, we say yes, of course vein as corridor, of
course as transcendence in to grace
we do not hesitate at skin, we know these
motions as our motions-- the tender escape,
the pacing from organ to organ. we memorize
its path, as if it were with out variant, as if
with out contradiction
the way we say, how do you say,
in the motion of absolute, we neglect to determine
what has happened
or, we are not with out order.
& our body is a body of chaos; our death
a death that comes always in to a room
as a white light, destroying every thing
but the sickness-- that well
once more of
heat, of love.
07/14/2002 Posted on 07/14/2002
Copyright © 2024 Marina Dawn
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Ashok Sharda on 02/06/03 at 04:19 PM Every thing means so different if SEEN from a different layer of awareness. Awareness of everything at once, within, without,and in totality. Sometimes, from a deeper layer, where levels too lose their meaning, meaning too start losing its meaning. What remains is WHAT IS. And thats pure sensing. I am wondering. Your SENSING, wordless, is so intact. Well, one has to use language in order to express. Nice piece. Thanks. |
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