Inside the Rose (1)

That camel there with its calf running behind it,

Sutur and Koshek, we are like them,

mothered and nursed

by where and whom we are from,

following our fates where they lead,

until we hear a drum begin,

grace entering our lives, a prayer of gratitude.

We feel the call of presence,

and the journey changes.

A dry field of stones turns soft and moist

as cheese. The mountain feels level under us.

Love becomes agile and quick,

and suddenly we are there.

This traveling is not done with the body.

God's secret takes form in our loving.

The Taste of Morning

Time's knife slides from the sheath,

as a fish from where it swims.

Being closer and closer is the desire

of the body. Don't wish for union.

There is a closeness beyond that.

Why would God want a second God?

Fall in love in such a way

that it frees you from any connecting.

Love is the soul's light, the taste of morning,

no me, no we, no claim of being.

These words are the smoke the fire gives off

as it absolves its defects,

as eyes in silence, tears, face.

Love cannot be said.

This Piece of Food

This piece of food cannot be eaten,

nor this bit of wisdom found by looking.

There is a secret core in everyone

not even Gabriel can know by trying to know.

Raw, Well-Cooked, and Burnt

You ask, Why do you cry

with such sweetness all around?

I weep as I make the honey,

wearing the shirt of the bee,

and I refuse to share this suffering.

I play the sky's harp.

I curl around my treasure like a snake.

You say, What is this I business?

Friend, I've been a long time away from that.

What you see here is your own reflection.

I am still raw, and at the same time

well-cooked, and burnt to a crisp.

No one can tell if I'm laughing

or weeping. I wonder myself.

How can I be separated and yet in union?

A Door

I have lived on the lip

of insanity, wanting to know reasons,

knocking on a door. It opens.

I've been knocking from the inside.

Love Dogs

Turquoise Jar, by Farhad Moshiri 

One night a man was crying Allah. Allah.

His lips grew sweet with the praising,

until a cynic said, So. I have heard you calling out,

but have you ever gotten any response?

The man had no answer for that.

He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep

where he dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,

in a thick green foliage.

Why did you stop praising? Because

I've never heard anything back.

This longing you express

is the return message.

The grief you cry out from

draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness that wants help

is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.

That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs no one knows the names of.

Give your life to be one of them.

Unmarked Boxes

Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round

in another form. The child weaned from mother's milk

now drinks wine and honey mixed.

God's joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,

from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flowerbed.

As roses, up from ground. Now it looks like

a plate of rice and fish, now a cliff

covered with vines, now a horse being saddled.

It hides within these, till one day it cracks them open.

Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep

and changes shape. You might say, Last night

I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,

a field of grapevines. Then the phantasm goes away.

You are back in the room.

I don't want to make anyone fearful.

Hear what's behind what I say.

Tatatumtum tatum tatadum. There is the light gold of wheat

in the sun and the gold of bread made from that wheat.

I have neither. I am only talking about them,

as a town in the desert looks up

at stars on a clear night.