Night Enters the Garden of Delight

Here in the garden of delight
the sad fingers of night
come groping:

like the pale tendrils of morning light;

like the sea groping and feeling its way forward
along the cracks and fissures,
and over the rocks, as the tides coming in;

like the waves of ecstasy, gradually reaching in,
deeper and deeper, rhythmically rising,
tensing towards the rending rushing
abandonment of orgasm;

like death seeps, cold as the sea,
into your
gradually wearying bones.

They grow with such subliminal tenderness,
such unperturbed certainty -
such a blossoming of dark blooms
on the tips of these sad fingers -
prying open the possibility of the fruition of mourning.
The most unwelcome of all guests in the garden of delight,
and yet,
the only guest without a mask,
the only guest with a face.

 

 













© 1996 cirque-samsara/nik beeson