That stone, domed room
Bring Him to the door
by gathering your hand into a fist;
pound until it sifts right through -
no sound results - to prove
is the veneer of existence
as if gaping holes might be
left in it by the next hard rain.
Thinnest I've found - in the Tomb,
hovering between lover and the Beloved
and what fills the gaps
is that (of which I know so little)
to which the word love might apply.
If ever I return to India
it will be only to that stone, domed room
hoping to leave outside everything else
and rejoice beyond the world's grasp
and power to ever touch me again.
O child of God, be a man without substance
and fall undetected through the cracks.