turning the wheel back

if we must consider
all of these scenes
as dreams
what of your honey voice
your terrible hands
when they touch my arm
I tremble
what of the hint of walnut
in German tort
what of sorrow and those special severings
-- newborn from womb
-- me from you

or the obvious, rent from our egos
leaving us tumbling
forsaken
dust motes, alone
away from any trace
of community

if we should think
of all dharmas as phantoms
why should you come to me
as sweet as the pinnacle of passion
as dense as my unknowing
and the deafness we all share
at hearing your formidable teachings