Under the tent flap
In darkness, I keep returning
to the elephant’s fan and spear,
serpent and rope, column and throne,
each being not only partial and false but, also –
in our singularly karmic, piecemeal journeys –
heartbreakingly valid and vital.
Each to his own under the tent flap
and in that similar captivity,
I am required to assign myself
no greater accuracy or piety
than any other of those rowdy souls groping,
out of necessity, the enigmatic shape before us
and include myself first
among the mere mortals
in their inherent inability to ever coax
the entire creature fully into the light.
O child of God, withhold judgment
of a particular for the sake of the One.