The Indian ocean,
In which the setting sun
Falls golden
To the wetted lips
Of waves infinite,
Speaks in white-water rumbles,
And the wind pulses warmly on my skin
And tussles at my hair.
–
These and much else
Call the mind to their sensational happening
And I feel my body in the world,
Sights and sounds
All around me.
–
But what is this me
In which the world appears?
What perceives
The golden mirror to the absolute west,
Laid upon the sea
Like an avenue,
The last light before dusk?
–
If, for a moment
I withdraw from my sun-warmed skin,
The buffeting wind
And my hair rustling like leaves,
What can I say
About being?
–
What can I say about the one
Who perceives these beautiful things,
The one who sees
The fishing boats heading out
To catch the night fish?
–
I try again,
Withdrawing from the worldly things,
Saying aloud “I am”;
Finding its resonance,
That to which the portal refers,
And fall from the sensational skin
And the light fading
And the wind’s playfulness.
–
I fall away into I,
Into dimensionless I,
Into love and well-being
And that which is indescribable,
That which defies the poet
And renders him
To nothing but inescapable warmth.
–
And then I open my eyes
To the perfect globe of the sun,
A ball of orange
Muted by the horizon’s haze,
And find being hauled with me
Like the fishermen’s silver clad nets
That come to the surface so bountiful.
–
Now, being seems wholly in the world,
In everything within earshot and gaze.
The waves are speaking
As if each drop were lubricated,
Each molecule part of the soft fluid whole.
And the wind too is a song
Of whispers gathered by the clouds,
Lovingly caressing
Those who’d be gladly touched.
–
Who is infusing
And who is infused?
It does not matter much
In beingness,
For no one but the One exists,
No one but the One
Is flushed by love,
No one but the One
Is as open as the universe is.
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