On Being Hollow

Behind the eyes and ear to ear,

There’s nothing to this head up here.

Boundaries but a wisp of pressure,

This body’s unbound, light as a feather.

This vivid space of love and light,

Of form, of sound, of touch, of sight,

Shimmers as though refracted through heat,

Fades as time tumbles and ticks offbeat.

One mind not mine pervades, perceives,

Not apart but the whole of the slippage and heave.

This heart in and of our hollowed hallowed All?

Its rest is as and of and in turbidity’s empty quiddity,

Its play for the rest of days delights of liminal liquidity.

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