All this talk of pits and fires,
            of saving and wanting, it's not
            interesting anymore, not here.
            The body is going on vacation.
            The body is taking a leave,
            as in gone, as in not there anymore.
            The body is mythic gone, elapsed,
            immaculate awol. So long gone.

            The body gets too big, it wants
            too much, the body wants
            the wrong things, it doesn't deserve
            anything, the body is overstated,
            the body is obvious, explicit,
            graphic, frontal, and worse.
            The body is gone. That's all.
            That should be enough.

            The body is nobody, then, and
            never was. The body is nobody
            now and always is. The body
            has a new attitude. Don't
            take it personally. Don't take it
            Anyhow or anywhere, don't
            leave it. Don't give it any mind.
            The body is not there.

            The body is a word, that's all.
            It's all trees and forest, now,
            it's all leaves and grass. The breeze
            makes a soft, shivering sound,
            it's shaking off what does not belong-
            the body in the grass, the body
            in the scene. The body is making

            A pass at the extreme and
            the absolute, the body at the center
            of everything-the grass, the green,
            the scene, the sky--the body
            is leaving, the body is saying
            goodbye. The body is drifting down
            and going to sleep now.

            Calligraphy without text, now-
            not zen or tao. Modesty's work
            -in-progress flourish, that mostly
            watery figure wound and stretched
            through never and ever to what,
            promptly, it is anyway-is gone.
            The body is gone, withdrawn,
            impeccably absent. And gone

            Asleep? The body is gone. Forgotten,
            lost, and gone. No consolation, no
            help, no body. No ache, no sting,
            no body, no pits, no fires,
            no wants, no desires, no body.
            Just this, is all. Just this-no ache,
            no sting. Just this. No want. Just this.

            Just what? Just rest, all the rest,
            in darkness, in sleep, in quiet,
            in peace, just rest, in nothingness,
            in sleep, in sleep, awaiting
            the dream that justifies the shock
            of sudden breath. Our Lover
            is jealous and never far...

Copyright © Christopher Moylan, 2005. All Rights Reserved.