Life Itself

Here there is life swimming
in the rich darkness, which
is no longer thick like oil
but pure like air or starlight:
but you don't know where it is
coming from:  moonlight silence
waiting, walls watching horizons
in the middle of the night. There
is no speculation here:  there is
vigilance turned to purity in its
own refined depths.  All is unexpected,
everything and nothing: not light,
not dark, not high, not low, not this
side, not that side.  The wind and
the angles cry thus:  I lie dead in
the shade of their floating fleeing
freeing wings:  life and night, day
and darkness, between life and death:
this is the caller of my mortal existence,
which opens into the vacuous vast sky.