a long nerve leaping out of its sheath
not around or about anything
but held within
the free-fall logic of chaos
the life-blood’s explosion
not just in each flung absolute droplet
but in the fall
infolding its ragged scattering
plunging through the clutch of shape
plummeting through the sphincters
lustily resonant
it births at the brink
into the abyss of itself
before flow before rock
boiling into vortices
into the blown-out spray where dragons laugh
as if there's a thread of freedom
and it’s pouring through an abandonment
that becomes full-bellied
like a round-bottomed pitcher
filling bearing emptying
but mine is the work within the burning dust
to sense that completeness
for a cold clear axis
where the stand is true
without hope
or hunger
From: Travels in the Middle Land, Dhamma Moon, 2013.