There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.
I would have danced
were I not already full
to bursting with the throb
and thrum of God
pulsing from the pot
belly of a
drum.
But there was no space
left for dancing
in my heart of hearts.
There is no place for souls to linger
in quarantine from
the defiling relentless rush
of mad busyness
after such transcendence.
No safe holding tank
for souls scrubbed clean
with wood and leather--
Germ-free and ecstatic.
There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.
