Although by now reduced to ash,
the lingering memory of the Nag Champa
still teases the nostrils with the aroma
of our union’s fragrant chemistry.
The room where the blaze of our love
re-ignited has now become a perfumed temple
where visitors from the future will break into
spontaneous weeping at the mere wisp
of our invisible vibration seeping
into their feeling being.
Deliciously, they will slide
like phantom tourists at a theme park
of the Heart from my tongue
to yours, yours to mine.
To get the intimate feel
of our body, they must have
already perished to their own.
This is not difficult –
one need only persist until
every desire reveals its source.
There is a cask of wine waiting there
that no one has ever tapped.
The Winemaker sealed it with a cork
of humility and placed it on a rack,
inaccessible to anyone still haunted
by the stubborn belief that they
are other than the wine itself.
Permeated through and through
by the fragrance of an open ecstasy,
we roll our light into each other,
sinking beneath incense,
ashes, wine, ecstasy.
Nobody will find us
until they stop looking,
let go, and fall into this seeing.
These hands that hover
over your skin have crushed
the starry vineyards into a golden
chalice of irresistible nectar.
When I pour this honey into you
we melt back into stars.
Just past twilight
in the floating worlds,
earth-bound angels will gaze
into the new night sky and dream
of us, leaning near to them,