Where Are You Going, Absalom?

‘to where the moon
can melt the sun,
the cactus blooms
at high noon
and the darkness
bids good morning. . . . .

where cowled thoughts
and taut skin
need never cover
hot bones
and the cactus
no longer pricks . . . .

to fly wingless
to the mind’s ankh,
taking only me, only me
and find that I
suffice.

I’ve been before
to Paradise,
but forgot.
Reaching in,
I reach out,
touching my own
nimbus.
I’ll not be gone long.’

David wept.

Photo by John Holmes