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Poetry

This is your infinite being.

Well, then, I am screwed,
since the lozenge-cool om
of the yogi misfires:

not launching me
like a sweat bead
to float midair,

but jangling my
shorted nerves,
which despite practice

remain fidgety
and ridiculously hidebound.
And I think, is this it?

Is this all I
will glimpse in this life
of the widest places—

like Satan winging
earthward past Death’s
disembodied shadow?

And if not seen now,
who knows about after,
when infinity of spirit

is promised and freedom
from infinite unlikeness
may come at last?


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