YES, THE SECRET MIND WHISPERS (for Bob Kaufman) by Al Young.

Poetry’s a tree
forever at your door
neither scratching nor
knocking but everywhere
eager to force its way
into the soft warm room
of your ornery old heart,
its fat pink tongue
into the sensitive linings
of your weary young ear

A tree bearing blossoms, a flower
surfacing in a canal of blood,
the dream auto with dream motor
that idles eternally but has
no moving parts, no fumes just
fragrances beneficial to breathe

It breathes mystery this tree
but no more so
than moons over midnights seas
or the breast of a woman/child
to whom menstruation’s happening
for the first time

It’s the practice of yoga
on rainy nights in cities,
the sudden thought of death
halfway through the desert, a
magic wafer you take
into your mouth
swallow to dear life……

Al Young

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