You fill my quiver
In the Great Seclusion,
You drew back Your bow.
I draw back mine now
to escape this great, desperate
seclusion –
an arrow hurled across the
space between us;
cleaving the Oneness You
insist exists.
Yes, this poem says, like
any other --
I am not You; We are not One;
heart is not Heart; throat is
not Ear.
Yet, this is our parley
and our communion.
You fill my quiver. I empty it, a note
of praise and complaint attached
to each shank.
How did the world change
when Krishna abandoned His
flute
for arrows, quiver and
bow?
When Cupid first unfurled
his wings
and went beating about
doing God’s bidding?
O child of God, pray to
become God’s prey.
A good poem is an arrow
sunk deep in the chest.
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