I may not be right
but it feels like light
is all we’re made of.
If a particle is a wave and a wave is a particle,
this sensation of bodily flesh
is a mass of tangles
of strands of light
that glump together in zillions of ways.
So I’ll be a sweet mother
And set out to combing
this precious girl’s knotted curls,
of tangles of strands of light, poor girl,
so your strands of light will flow
to the blissful dream
of the cave in me, of Emptiness