I close the lid on
this simmering sky

and live on silence

till I'm safe
and coiled
in ebony and belief
and I no longer thirst
for things
that can own me—
those brief, brassy things—
such as the warm, crashing
blood of loveless passion
and all that I mourn
in my old plastic
heaven.

Loyal Earth and
Sacred Text
of the Beyond,
sky full
of bubbling telepathy:
you just . . .
know.

My Polaris, my moon, my
lost self, found,
I get it now:

Pain was only half-truths
and desire.

How cleansing,
the wicked cold,
Night the Devourer,
My one complete now,
not unlike the pulsing
fever of human need.

The forest is an
Assembly of many sages
when I see it
without eyes—

emptiness . . .
what relentless purity—

when there is
nothing left but
infinity playing notes
of spheres
and raven trances
and fitful light.

Something genuine
outside of time
tells me this brand
of Love
will never leave

and I am all of That
and all that
I need.


Patricia Joan Jones