[Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere... – Walt Whitman]
Liquid under the charred brow
of the valley of death
the fabled Nile gleams.
It’s the eye of Horus
shedding a tear for old temples,
peering, joyless, at hot air balloons.
Snake charming pipes regale
tourists on a cruise boat;
the soul grows heavy
with images of bursting planes --
and wary of the judgment
of Osiris – the monster Amemit
eating a meaty, raw heart.
Luxor’s stone tree of life still glows;
one thinks of the ochre moment
of Bardo that will erase all colors,
Nile blue or a childhood rice field green
of billowing waves, and invite all
to a merging with the one --
like pink portals that beckon
to a feast at the teats of Nut.
But the sky and the earth are
a backdrop. We walk the pathways
of desire and fear with a hollow
feathery heart bent on ascension.
This body with its meat sacks,
its iterative propensities,
belongs to none, and this mind that spins
endless spidery filaments
catches nothing.
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