[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.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
