To Be Precise


 
 

Just below the heart

and just above the solar plexus,

to be precise,

is a temple in the valley

of grace. And here,
two fingers' width

in front of your chest,

to be precise, is a flame

that does not burn

but gives sweetness.

It is like cotton spun

from fibers of starlight.

All triangles point here.

All equations are balanced

by the breath this space holds.

The constellations, those beasts

of silence, gather to drink

from this spring

which Jesus called the well

of everlasting life,

Milarepa the jewel

at the center of a lotus

with bee-drowning fragrance,

an amazement of proportions

that drive mathematicians mad

in search of beauty.

Perhaps the name of Krishna

will draw you here, perhaps
the name of Christ, or the secret
name of the Goddess, born
on a vapor of surrender.

But really, you won't comprehend

this radiance at all

until you gaze on the face

of the Friend, in the mirror
of your own longing.


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