Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.

-Rumi


In his pool of skin a surface-tension bore
scatters of melanin like the browned-out lips
of dogwoods.
Like the sun set right into
that fawn cheek
and sheer eye.



I could taste his sweat in the neck
of my bottle when the lime
hissed as it dropped;

I could see him rising in the pearls
of various night sky bodies;

I could feel his pulse across the million
frozen miles from star to star
though he stretched beside me,
sleeping brow nesting in my ribs--

I felt the breath in him given
to buoy my heart-
beat.



I met him in that field,
too full to speak
or even flutter the lips
of the brown wet heart--

empty enough yet
to know what had been
recieved.

07/29/2004

Author's Note: thanks given to rumi and a new friend who is now far away. definitely, criticism welcome.

Posted on 07/29/2004
Copyright © 2025 Indigo Tempesta