All my chakras vanished
when I tasted the Self.
Now I'm a rose-apple pie,
too caramelized and sticky
to have a subtle body.
Meditate on my flavor, friend,
all sweet and sour and
cinnamon flesh.
I have no recipe.
This crust was cooked with tears.
Let's savor each other and forget
those esoteric Dharma talks,
those secret books of tantra.
Who knows how the heart gets baked
until it is soft and risen,
but I'm sure it's made
with real butter.
Who knows if there is a higher world
than this one with its
Winter wheat and valiant weeds
still blossoming in my ruined garden.
But I'm perfectly sure
about one thing:
On a honey-golden stamen tip,
the earth is just a pollen speck
in the flower of Now.

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