Yes, we look at stuff: heads, houses, trees,
under skies we lie are finite
just as I watch she who I think I am,
through eyes bent by illusion of night.

We feel unfolding in this love
and call love the unfolding.
We let peace blanket the fires
and call peace the smoke.
(Yet peace itself never broke).

So we seek light shows at a carnival,
mad prophets and meditating words,
bending behind and out of the whole
as if recluse – this inner orgy of nuns –
could unchant no-one’s manifesto.

But it can’t end here, it can’t be fooled
It can’t be held, kept, never enclosed.
Could you see it, touch it, feel it?
Are we petty tyrants, dictating effects,
while the great cause just laughs?

Where would you find this that roams
through internal empires, looking for itself?

It’s here, in the gut of the kitchen sink.
It’s here at the joyous, alcoholic brink.
It’s here where cockroaches swarm.
It’s here, where you stand forlorn,
half naked and trembling,
in misery’s silent storm.

It’s here, beloved,
as you kiss this sleeping child.
Here, cursing the light, lost in the wild.
It’s here in your sleep, oh gentle lord,
deep in the earth.
It’s here, in this ongoing chord,
where this, your death,
is this, your birth.

It’s here, my friend, my self, my lonely one
It’s here.
And the kingdom is come.