No Room for Form (1)

On the night when you cross the street

from your shop and your house to the cemetery,

you will hear me hailing you from inside

the open grave, and you will realize

how we have always been together.

I am the clear consciousness-core

of your being, the same in ecstasy

as in self-hating fatigue.

That night, when you escape the fear of snakebite

and all irritation with the ants,

you will hear my familiar voice,

see the candle being lit,

smell the incense, the surprise meal

fixed by the lover inside all your other lovers.

This heart-tumult is my signal

to you igniting in the tomb.

So don't fuss with the shroud

and the graveyard road dust.

Those get ripped open and washed away

in the music of our finally meeting.