Death must. Love must. Life must.
‘Death must. Love must. Life must.
In no way will these separate in their erupt.’
A shaman tells his disciple low in the voice
As if teaching himself too, gentle of poise.
‘This night will do. This glade will do. Pure art,
This forest — well, all these trees — all neurons,
And fire comes in its usual regal dance, again
Caught between the hemispheres of the brain.
In one part, a yellow scallywag half-undressing
The trees covered by the dark, to mark out, reading
Our dwelling among thoughts, where we border.
The hope of orange — Rising! Rising! Forward,
Out of which the blue as insight finds its purpose;
The beginning and the ending and nothing. Wordless,
All things must — unless miracles and disasters
Aren’t a case of God — present themselves as lanterns
To this way, the only way, the recurring way,
If there’s any salvaging to do in their stay,
If there’s any understanding to gain, a revival.
‘What about the smoke?’ Asks the disciple.
‘It’s the beginning and the ending and nothing.’
The shaman puts out the fire to sleep, a lulling.
