Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.
We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.
They say there's no future for us.
They're right.
Which is fine with us.
At night we fall into each other with such grace.
When it's light, you throw me back
like you do your hair.
Your eyes now drink with God,
mine with looking at you,
one drunkard takes care of another.
//
I'm Not Saying This Right
You bind me, and I tear away in a rage to open out into air, a round brightness, a candlepoint, all reason, all love.
This confusing joy, your doing, this hangover, your tender thorn.
You turn to look, I turn. I'm not saying this right.
I am a jailed crazy who ties up spirit-women. I am Solomon.
What goes comes back. Come back. We never left each other.
A disbeliever hides disbelief, but I will say his secret.
More and more awake, getting up at night, spinning and falling in love with Shams.
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