John J. Savant
In the middle of God’s will
where you find yourself when
the mind has lost its map and
your memory has come down to
hunger: let your hand drift
into the colorless stream; let
your heart cease trying to make
a neat room of the minute; let
nothing but a single fly enter
that room, his impatient wings
grow still and grow stiller; let
him cease altogether—Nothing
enters this room now that is not
your life. Nothing defines it. You
are more light than matter. You
round like a sun. You are so grateful.