"The Sensual World."
"I call to you across a monstrous river or a chasm
to caution you, to prepare you.
Earth will seduce you, slowly, imperceptibly, subtly,
not to say with connivance.
I was not prepared.
I stood in my grandmother's kitchen holding out my glass.
Stewed plums, stewed apricots, the juice
poured off into the glass of ice and the water added patiently
in small increments.
The various cousins discriminating,
tasting with each addition.
Aroma of summer fruit, intensity of concentration,
the colored liquid turning gradually lighter,
more radiant, more light passing through it.
The light, then solace.
My grandmother waiting to see if more was wanted.
Solace, then deep immersion.
I loved nothing more.
Deep privacy of the sensual life,
the self disappearing into it or inseparable from it,
somehow suspended, floating, its needs fully exposed, awakened,
fully alive.
Deep immersion, and with it, mysterious safety.
Far away, the fruit glowing in its glass bowls.
Outside the kitchen, the sun setting.
I was not prepared.
Sunset, end of summer.
Demonstrations of time as a continuum,
as something coming to an end, not a suspension.
The senses wouldn't protect me.
I caution you as I was never cautioned.
You will never let go.
You will never be satiated.
Your body will be damaged and scarred.
You will continue to hunger.
Your body will age.
You will continue to need.
You will be damaged and scarred.
You will continue to hunger.
Your body will age.
You will continue to need.
You will want the Earth then, more of the Earth,
sublime, indifferent.
It is present.
It will not respond.
It is encompassing.
It will not minister.
Meaning, it will feed you, it will ravish you.
It will not keep you alive."