Until purity regains its footing
I keep my body immobile
like the leg of an old pier.
I want the stream to run clear
and if that’s not possible,
the opacities to be mere
insubstantial tricks of light,
or barring that, discolorations
of the stream itself, ever-flowing and untainted.
And when the dirt is ruffled from the bottom,
I want my body to remain stationary
until purity regains its footing.
That’s what this is – this sitting here
quietly folded – letting the stream of existence
pour unimpeded over whoever it is I am.
O child of God, to no longer know who you are
is a gift in kind from the great Unknowable.