Alfred K. LaMotte

February in the bardo, wayless Between,
More solid surely than beginning 
or arrival, when thaw and peristalsis
squeeze me out of myself,
pass me like a burning stone
from dark to dark, spore to spore, 
the gift of one electron to the next,
a discontinuous thread of quantum shifts, 
a shrug of the indifferent vacuum. 
Somehow bidden upward by a dumb 
invisible glow, through troughs and 
hollows of loam, where the only hope
is Presence, I hear the unstruck chimes 
of Imbolc ringing in their seeds, 
taste the licorice roots of pure attention, 
sip sparkling streams of emptiness 
between frog croaks, scent star-spume 
of the void in a coyote howl.
This could be the hour I meet You 
in solitude, Bodhichitta stillness 
of the black hole, whorl 
of dahlia blossoms in a withered bulb, 
silken wisps of Andromeda listening 
to itself, coiled in serpentine Otherness.
How many Dharma talks must I attend 
before I discover this galactic silence 
rippling between my thoughts?
Let your constellations bend over me 
and kiss my forehead with 
unfathomably intimate distances. 
Let a sparrow sing in the season 
after the dream, just before waking 
when the diamond that never sleeps 
is born. Call it my Heart. 

APRIL 2023 Alfred K. LaMotte MONK

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