A Calendar Page Torn

The chest torn open, the breast on fire.
It is a choice of days we make.
Days when only the vivid world comes to the eye –
And eventually –
Through the soul and onto the face.
That state of beingness where
The shooter & his target are one.
(Now I come to rest on coral
And deeply do I sink in.
Then as profoundly I am expelled
And as mist am carried over the sea
To light upon a cloud
Or the wing of a dove
Or perhaps
 To be inhaled
Into another soul
Such as yours.)