You, and [then . . .] I

At Rest, At Last

You invite me to re-enter my body after a near-
life-long absence. You: visceral spirit whose arms
are strong, whose bones clink together when you
speak of God, you whose flesh glows red whenever
you recall the great and ancient Ones residing
everywhere in everything,
tiny particle-gods
making up the air and the dirt
whose life the sprung crocuses, purple and yellow, fling out
toward the sun in exchange for the fire it returns,
blazingly, into the vast and expanding walls of
its otherwise dark and hollow frame. And I,
aflame with the firey particles of God,
you and I, aglow, remain,
as if made entire in a kiln.

So I—my dear muse—and my body (stranger for so long)
elicit the enfleshed songs of love, songs rejoining and
mixing with the spheres, rejoicing in our bodies, your
thighs, your own tender and vast universe between
the nested places you call me to, home, free to rock in
ecstatic forms of prayer that culminate in relishes of
silence, like a scream, a scream, sounds like your name,
dripping from my lips, earthbound, discovering air to all
celestial fire, breathing, chanting our eternal fleshy song
—we, taking and receiving, uncharred, burning.