Why should I be a whole?
Even wholeness can get sickening.
A hand ought to go away from the body
beautifully
and linger, like a being all its own,
poised on the musty air.
Before it comes back to earth, my body.
Before it returns to be me.
Then let me be partial: parts
like a bee
and a violet are parts.
Let the wind split, when
menacingly
I jump before it, I challenge it.
Darkness, it is beautiful. The dark.
It is my lips sucking at what I know not.
It is my fingers gone into the dark places, like a ship of explorers.
It is me forgotten in my desire to explore.
Yet I am the vessel that does the exploring.
It is my toes when they meet the ground, power flexed against power.
It is my knees conscious, like springs, of their final connection to the ground.
The ground is not-me.
Sky is not-me.
But my potency declares itself against the sky, against the ground.
Where I am is not-sky.
It is not-ground.
It is a mystery.
I am darkness. I move like a ship among the unknown.
I myself am the unknown.
The unknown darkness.
I shall lap over you, another unknown darkness.
I shall splash over you in darkness and un-know you.
In the dark rain of dark life, we shall be.
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