Everything at its core is pure

if only we can get there.
The cops, the glass-littered street
after the accident,

yesterday's paper and the guy
walking his pit bull while talking on his cell phone
are pure.

The dogshit he picks up with a plastic baggie,
and the stained and broken-hearted sidewalk
where skinny trees with no names are struggling to crack through asphalt,

are pure, pure, pure,
deep at the core where molecules dance,
clasping each other in creation's crazy waltz.

They are just what they are

and I am just what I am,
stomach growling,
blue sky sailing slowly through my brain,

my moon heart waxing and waning.

The dream I had and didn't remember is pure.
My mixed motives were always pure.
I wanted love

and freedom.  I wanted to hide,
to be seen, to embrace, to die
and be reincarnated as a midwife living in a small town,

or a trapeze artist in sequins travelling from circus to circus.

It was always pure desire
especially when just out of reach.
At my core I longed only to touch

essence,
and I came so close!
God knows it was pure

criminal hunger that drove me through my days
and pure thirst that woke me at 3 a.m., tidal confusion aroused,
a wail of police sirens screeching through my heart's back alleys,

pure meat, pure light a cry lodged in the deep red cavern of my throat.