sit down and listen.

I.
You.
He.
She.
We.
.
In the garden of mystic lovers
these are not true distinctions.
.
There’s part of us
that’s like an itch
call it the animal soul
a foolishness
that when we’re in it
we make hundreds of others
around us
itchy
and
there is an intelligent soul
with another desire
more like sweet basil
or the feel of a breeze
listen
and be thankful
even for scolding
that comes from the intelligent soul
it flows out closer to where you
flowed out
but that itchiness
wants to put food in our mouths
that will make us sick
feverish with the aftertaste
of kissing a donkey’s rump
it’s like blackening your robe
against the kettle
without being
anywhere near
a table of companionship
the truth of being human
is an empty table
made of soul intelligence
gradually
reduce what you give
your animal soul
the bread
that after all
overflows
from sunlight
the animal soul itself spilled out
and sprouted from the other
taste more often
what nourishes
your clear light
and you’ll ¬†have less use for the smokey oven
you’ll bury that baking equipment
in the ground
.