Words are the rusted iron locks
on the chest of meaning
within the chest is the hidden key to them all
Silence is the locksmith.
A swelling tongue
guides his breath
past parted lips
soft words adrift
warms her mouth
and soothes her throat
in ocean hearts
their dreams afloat
down river beds
breaching the banks
of what the other says.
What shall we do with these words between us?
Tumbled and polished by mouth and ear
and then beyond our counting,
weathered thin to a translucent veneer,
until their vessel walls dissolve,
their pulsing meaning thus evolved
and you and I are no longer contained,
and our rolling along aboard this train
from I to you
and where there is no longer a you, or an I
or we two.
Where this traveling sentence stops
and the car doors open
and the conductor announces,
this train is no longer in service.”
All is One, One is all
their distinction has no purpose.