Once the spigot runs dry

Once the spigot runs dry                                                                                     

Nary an island of truth, apparently,

in this vast sea of illusion

to set a solid foot upon.

Deep in my cups, I drown

in my ignorance and isolation,

cling to sentimentalities, spout

my judgments and objections  . . .

but once the spigot runs dry, I sober up,

fold up my deficiencies, release

every prejudice I hold like paper lanterns

onto the flowing currents 

and settle best I might under the stars

into a quiet receptivity

(which has nothing at all

to do with knowledge or perception)

of a truth so encompassing, so indisputable,

its every tongueless expression and persuasion

leaves no room for any possibility of refutation.

O child of God, the one sweet spot of truth

in the whole universe is stowed away inside your chest.