Inside of every bud
there is a momentary God.
There are arrangements
of mud and rain called being
(light always comes
from a deep womb of pain).
Inside of every latch
there is a splintered threshold
a shrapnel of ecstasy
we may later call: Love.
The Goddess
molds you
into a cup for the sky
knowing you will shatter
from the pressure
of all that nothingness.
Even your torn remains-
your smithereens of passion
can still be a vision
of imminent birth.
