They're singing songs of love
but not for me. I'm outside the queue;
in the Tomb bowing; quavering;
down the hill I wander, a sightseer.
Awaiting my partaking, my partaking.
I don't get it. A smidgen shy,
a hovering or the opposite -
too broad, perfunctory for love
to grasp, penetrate, permeate;
too awkward and ashamed
to breathe it all in and let it all out.
Nothing is going to shake me
down to my alien roots, from the daze
and back in the States, the usual
empty-handed clasp and regimen.
I don't get it, the way I was hoping
to find that magic penetration, participation
at Meherabad in the gathering and dispersal,
in the rosy, broken open Tomb
of the Holy Assimilator.
O child of God, spurn and love, impatience and longing,
are sometimes, in the great scheme, indistinguishable.