to its governing by beating
with blood and oxygen
circulating back and forth, to the brain,
sorting out our identity’s subtleties
like thin rain.
in here, to the hues of feeling
where a redness so readily soars,
in here, somewhere where
we say “innermost” and “desire”
and where it’s so easy to drown.
There is a hush when we really
turn into it, sunflowers turning
their own gaze into they own
stem, petals, head and more into,
more into, more.
Or so it’s what
the masters say, their skin
spiced in sea haze.
to the beating and its roar
more and more
and the masters’ breathing eyes
digging backward inside
beating with the beating,
until they whisper a final