Act like an empty field,
a moment made up
by imaginal points,
carriers of this presence,
all part
of a fluid praise
from nothing to nothing,
its empty form full
of compassion for being
awake: simply
here, beyond
opposite others,
the gates open,
yellow flowers arranged
by the real
author over old footpaths
where fools still come
to stop.
God grant me the honesty to live this lie, this failure which finds form in the written word, and the humility never to mistake my limits…
Though no thought can get there, there is a tiny crack in the circle of self. The shadows stretch far beyond what you can see, but there…
If you find that you're lost, consult the unifying structure