The taste of honey
When the Brahman found me
I was dust and I was gold
a thousand books of parables
lifting the thirst from the well.
I awoke to the drumming of bees
in the evangelist's tent
under a wild nest of stars
counting the days of the hill.
With the washwoman who carries the torch for the Almighty
and a blind storyteller,
by the angel of Abraham and the angel of Mohammed
in the city of one hundred names.
By the undried wells
where lovers polish stones,
and in the soot of night
with the psalms of a prophet's rage.
A beautiful maya festooned in the hand
an outcrop of granite,
emerald and sapphire and ruby
green chasing blue chasing red.
Stumbling to recover one blind word
behold with empty eyes
one scripture
in which everything is counted
the taste of honey
and all the rivers emptying into one.