in every tree dwells a story
that incinerates the ground.

in every blur to perfection
twirl one thousand tessellations.

from every filigree of light
surges the breath of integration.

in every assymetrical shape
hides a cryptic geometry.

in me arises a sentient air
that knows every secret.

my heart craves what it craves
without a care for who’s laughing.

i am not riddle.
i am not enigma.
i am not allegory.


i am not burning bush,
but the conscious flow of water.



In the breath of Rumi…

what makes up hunger?
what makes up desire?

how do we abandon
the straight line of should
and embrace the winding infinity of now?

.:: don’t go back to sleep ::.

how do we learn to clear a space
where the uncertain
and impermanent
may dwell?

.:: the door is round and open ::.

how do we abandon turmoil
and embrace serenity?



they tried to tell me 
how to enter this gate
with grace.

little do they know
about grace.

leave that to me.

i have known ancients who,
though their smiles were jagged
and their eyes were murky,
their spirits were emblazoned
with tempests of gratitude.

for some, it is enough to know
what the body craves; yes,
that is the true measure,
isn’t it?

for others, it is
never enough.