(after Rumi) Waking this morning into The first hints of fall, light On the ground and some Salvaged pieces of skull Bone, leaves catching The first flame, wind from Southeast ruffling Buds of yellow chrysanthemums: Light pushing out From wet earth,

My inert body, instead of singing The dreams just seen and just Lost, As it kneels to kiss the ground, A dulcimer cradled in the arms.

Has been rifling through Piles, stacks, heaps Of books, hunting communion That can be found only with Another empty and frightened Body or god.