Saturday, October 31, 2009

Improbable prayer.

I'm begging you

Are You ___, the One
Who set this in motion,
Made of me a distraction,
Made of my heart a lode
Without tributary, pause,

Have You found this straightaway that plunges and discerns?

There is, I guess in my bareness, as from Your Hands
The ghost of purpose always.

There prevails the hot rock, fluid
On my human earth:

How it has singed away the disguises of Divine Love,
How, too, it has exposed my purposeless,
--And of course I estimate in my small soul,
So scorched clear it All is
And cools here.

I cannot tell the remnants apart.

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