For the Bagua...and the Redheads

An invisible art form,

unmade in my hands,
becomes visible with every syllabic
breath

as an intuition,

it grows and intercepts
strands of fibrous life,
like something gossamer -
a web! - and weaves itself together

nebulous, it spirals round

a seed of itself, like a star,
and exhales light,
and shadow to define it

and it moves; sometimes

with me, mostly without,
as a pulse, a throb, a flux:
           The Wave
of which I am but a humble acolyte

singing songs and dancing

forgotten tribal rhythms
with my footsteps, just trying to keep up,
following like the fool the blue tail
of a wisp into the mists of the
unknown

 Where only the knowers know,

and the believers know,
and say, truly,
that knowing has a season and
lo, it is upon us.