To sit, in schedule liberation, with just
traffic hum on a late summer day . . .
could be in any age, grand or common;
site of urban magnificence or jaded
commercial strip, noted only by numbers
of addresses, not shapes or colors or names.

Here I am in a young body or old,
a mind agile or shuffling, heart-song or sighs.
Wealthy to generosity or barely
scraping together for a close shave of the month.
Health the vibrancy of gods or plod-
ing entropy winding out and down to sea.

Such tender love and cherishing of the one
I’ve always wished; that golden-red carnal-
ity of yearning touch surpassing shores
of flesh in deeper currents’ intimacies.
Or walking long roads of loss and longing,
children a hope departed years ago.

It doesn’t matter, you don’t take it to heart,
or mind these any circumstances—blind
they are. Along with all those wins and losses
in games, campaigns for president and art
of the ages. To the one authentic, even passing
the vasts of wild Nature’s mountains and oceans:

the touch-less intact of our fourth, source, dimension—
beyond soundings in body, in heart, in mind.
With a love draining whimpers from even the great,
she waits our approach to his portals, that gestalt of androgynous
gaze plays on the hours and our years kindle,
blazing in brilliance of birth to one’s unwavering One.