When I’m with you, darling, over time,
I find I’ve no idea who “you” are
nor the slightest notion of what
could be meant by “me.” “Me” is like a flea
you want to kill because it makes you itch.
Does this somehow suggest a richly
necessary mastery of self-forgetting –
part of the logistics of becoming those
deep-diving mystics we once breathlessly
professed we yearned to be?
Perhaps we’re where we wanted to arrive:
the point from which we might derive
the whole encompassing, encompassed
view: the there of here, the here of there:
eternal, ever rare and new.
But I can’t breathe, can you?
Wherever this is, there's no air.