May I live so:

‘if on my dust a tuft of grass were to grow, every blade would tremble with my devotion for thee.’ (from Invocations by Ansari of Herat)

 

Teacher

Teach.

Come towards to hush this

tightly

taught

dissecting

I

this mind of ‘my’

I

mine alone

this owner’s

ship of listing skin

this un-

contained husk of

lack and lust for

being seen as different and

distinct, these

sentient addictive flaws

I

darkly sow

now

deep within this sentimental hold, these

envious skeins, these half-

digested and indulged

unwatched

unwashed

infatuations of the

I

sores that pray to be

left alone to

infect

mindscapes over grown, to

freshly pull at scaffoldings of

braking bone

overwrought, this

 iron will of  ego intent can only glimpse

waverings

of such and such discontent,  for

I

have heard but seldom feel

the real and awesome unsaid

Word

that roots

and shoots

green leaves anew

to sway with ease

while anchored true to

dust

richly fed

deep within

the sacrificial flesh of

You.

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