That stone, domed room
Bring Him to the door by gathering
your hand into a fist; pound until
it sifts right through - proving how
insubstantial is the veneer of existence
as if gaping holes might be
left in it by the next hard rain.
Thinnest I've found is 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.
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