16

My dwelling has a simple charm—
Exotic delights are rented grief.
I'd rather drink sand than cut my tongue
On fashionable designer-cups,
On bloody made-up mannequins.

The size of my lot doesn't matter—
I've said it before; I'll say it again:
Within the world of the shuttered pearl
Is a grain of sand that grows,
Every layer embracing the whole.

Every line has fallen in it's place—
I have been left perfection;
The heart that beats within the heart
Counsels, instructs as it opens
Before me a constant way.

The right is my right and all my rights—
A wall that keeps me unmoved and moving;
For this and of this I sing rejoicing:
My lot is perfect peace;
Neither can I fall nor stumble.

Singing a mountain switchback,
The staffs of my songsheet
Are piton and rope: song
Of the blind who sees inwardly,
Tottering on the roof of bliss.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998