O Beloved, the intellectuals among us
probe Your every word, seeking hidden compartments.
I wish them well.
For many years I tried soaking up the Ocean through
the sponge of my brain.
Now I’m afraid Your wine has seriously impaired
my cerebral abilities.
Spouting ingenious theories of God and man,
Your wave rolled in and left me gasping for air.
What’s a few consonants strung with vowels,
when the Ocean floods the lowlands and carries Your life’s
accumulations out to sea?
Where is sure footing in fathomless water?
Which directions matter when all I see is Ocean?
What is there to do now but float face up and wonder
what You have in mind for the rest of my life?
O child of God, words of the Avatar are like bread to his lovers
but it’s the Master’s wine that soaks you head to foot.
(from The Garden of Surrender)