The clouds loom Like some great secret of nature. Her hot body, within which I sit; Am sipped, the ancient drum.

Measures of blood flow through me And enter a stream I do not know.

To this world: I must feed the ancient tree — Which is all bodies and none.

While living, spit, saliva. While dead: the creepers of the blood.

The mystic white billows peak out From the blue that hides the stars. Sun of the day, gleaming Obscuring the hidden mysteries.

I go — in the white dust that billows Like smoke. The ancient grain, sung from me Like water.

Green-gold of the trees: All that I am In impenetrable Harmonies.

The rawness of my breath, For now, keeps the blood.

The electric nerve Which runs through me Turns the eye And colors my perception Of the infinite gape Of the stars