Strange anything at all exists.


What is, is!


Profound tautology,

but I can’t find a curtain to pull

to let me see behind “is”


Wittgenstein snorts like an impatient horse,


“Haven’t you ever heard of getting snared in a language game?”


This is the form fashionable in the West

of what in Indo-Persian lore once was called a “tilism” *

a magical landscape that can pass for real and hold you

for a very long time, even your whole life.


A substantial part of the beam of my attention,

is always held in wonder that a pen can be, that I am,

that a green shirt can be, that light and robins can be…


I’m dazed by what other people take for granted.


I’m a child or a fool or both mixed up together.


The wonder of water and palm trees and the blue of sky


And dark and stars and the ever unrolling scroll of dreams.


I admit it: I’ve been lost all my life and this

is where I’ve lived and this is who I’ve been


An undeclared mystic




*See the “Adventures of Amir Hamza”

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