Whirling

"the way he cries out for the majesty
he's lost,
give me that longing!"

– Rumi, "Hangover Remorse"

I don't know
if Rumi was bipolar
but I know he whirled,
students scrambling
to write down the poems
he spontaneously spoke
about pain and loss
and the beauty
all around
before he stopped whirling
again
and lost them all
in old longing
for Shamsi Tabriz,
the lost teacher.

It's three in the morning,
I haven't had coffee,
and my head is whirling
with the knowledge,
yes, knowledge,
of what is possible—
We belong together
here, you and I,
all of us, the dead, the lake,
the stars arranged just so,
and our uncountable offspring

filling out the bandstand,
filling up the the town,
renovating the old buildings, spilling out
over the countryside—

Come to me,
listen to me, I've been around
and around, up and
down often enough
to know.