The Magick

You can't name the Magick. But you can sing to the Mystery. You can't name the Magic. But you can dance in the Mystery. She came to kiss me and my going's gone and I'm no longer from. I'm now, somehow. We're us, somehow. I'm now, it's us, this kiss, we're now. Her voice surrounds me, whispered simple sounds, true sounds, murmurings. I'm ready to be deaf. Her skin in my mouth, slipping along my lips. My tongue, at rest and restless along the rest of her. Her skin. I'm ready to lose touch. I'm ready to be numb. I've sung and shouted and said and silently susurrated "I Love you" to her heart, her ear, the stars, her form, the Empty, her toes, her hips, and her nose. I'm ready to be dumb. I'm ready to be numb. I'm ready to be some- how ever-Now. I'm now, somehow. We're us, somehow. I'm now, it's us, this kiss, we're now. You can't name the Magick. My senses have found their reason, reached their peak, met their match, and grown so grand. If they be now struck down, or lost to circumstance, I'd be OK. I've kissed her. I've touched her. I've felt her. I've Loved her in all the sensuous, in all the sense-orous ways. I'm ready to be blind. I'm ready for the Magick and all I'd leave behind.