Flawless
The final vestiges of ego unthreading
themselves as he lay on his bed,
watching his flesh separate from
his breath, without flinching,
he let die what seemed dead,
and still, he watched, finding
himself perfectly endless,
the little i having fled,
leaving only spaciousness,
silence swimming round
in his head, and the name
of his father graven into
his chest, as he rose,
sixteen years old, and mad
for his Master, the mountain,
he took off down the road,
barefoot, just a note to his
family amidst his schoolbooks,
foodless and famished for God,
whom he thought would leap
down from a tree and besiege
him, but it had already happened,
God himself implanted in each
cell of his being, no longer boy
but divinity supreme.
July 17, on the occasion of Venkataraman’s awakening