
I lay on a blanket of silence
in morning blackness,
listening for body sounds,
for proof of existence
that I am not just
the dream of a bat
tired of his cave ceiling
a mere shadow in the air
some hallucination left over
on the plate of the day.
Sacred and ecstatic songs not bound by any one tradition as all contemplative poems are fingers pointing to the same moon. Go to end of page for a listing of archived poems.