only thieves dancing with the sun

in my other life
I was Osho in drag,
coming downstairs with 'The Book of Secrets'
in his hands, thinking one of us was
Moses
or the golden calf
led to slaughter,

in my other life
I am
writing on the wall
with Neruda's bird-like fingers, "I love you
straightforwardly",
poems and pinfeathers,
like rain inside
my Bukowski eyes, blinding me and binding me to
this one
(in which I am a woman)
and the clock is winding down
as the moon is breaking
 
isn't the moon always breaking?

I am here
and there is no one else to steal this poem away.

(there are no poets, only thieves, dancing)