Down, Down in the Tao
A Grand Unnameable
inaudibly speaks
from endless here,
else could speak we not
nor be.
Feathers, we,
on a deep bird
unseen between
two night skies,
flying because
feathers can.
Listening are we, with
our universe held to one ear,
to keeps-playing scuffles
between Isn’t and Is,
boisterous
in their muffled playroom.
To dance is the rule
in our This-That school
excepting that sleep
too is a rule
and quite more deep.
End of the world?
Peace after that?
Perhaps—but from within
the Night of All Nights
some eventually tickled
divine sleeper may
dreamingly laugh aloud,
stirring breathing into the
mist
and back soon will be we,
guns, and daily newspapers.
Call this if you wish
“The Little Laugh Theory”
although nameable is the Is
no more than is the Isn’t,
down, down in the Tao
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