Menu

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?


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

image of what looks like to be a water droplet or a small world in front of dark furred clouds.

Sacred Air

By

Nicholas Samaras

On Visiting Carthage

By

Jeanine Hathaway

Relic

By

Matthew Thorburn

As Saint Mark Says They Mustn’t

By

Mario Chard

Pin It on Pinterest