There’s a place
you can go
and I’ve gone there.
Where
(nothing left to compare them to)
the stars are just stars:
no less beautiful than before
the poets needled them into language–
penning post-mortem
phenomena reduced to concept.
There’s a place
you can go
and I’ve gone there.
Where
the name Avalokiteshvara’s
Pali syllables tumble
like river water pounding
across slippery rocks or honeysweet
melodies ribboning
through harp string and fingertip.
There’s a place
you can go
and I’ve gone there.
Where
humans are but vectors
for loftier concepts
such as courage and love.
Call them devas, they ride
our kind like a Pegasus,
our lives their struggle
to be made manifest.
There’s a place
you can go
and I’ve gone there.
Where
you’ll resign your post
as heaven’s doorman
and fling wide your stupefied love.
Greeting congregants
at church doors, you’ll ask,
are you here on business or pleasure?
There’s a place
you can go
and I’m not there.
To want to go back
is to never go back.
And I want to go back
more than anything.
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