Even the sky passes through her now,
vault of undifferentiated space, container
of the uncontained form lasting forever.
Whatever she is
all angles go to her, each particle
a teeming vale. Imaginary worlds come to rest in her,
flow out again, nourished from her lap. Geysers lift
diurnal brows, and ice floes slide
across her breasts. The room I live in
is a whisper of her, emptiness of emptiness,
vibrating string of folded questions.
Our passions wait for transformation
promised by that fire womb,
heaven joined to us.
What else could our dreams mean,
dreams reborn inside a cave
booming with zenzizenzizenic light
shot out and subsisting forever
in slow prosaic fall?