11. lotus temple

Once I read in some novel, I forget which one,
of someone pressing his hand to his chest
to ascertain that his heart was still
beating. something so Foster Wallace,
so Plath, that assuredly,
I would never do it,

but here I am (I am-I am),
palm to sternum,
reminding myself
of the deep thrum of sacred
in my ribcage,
ringing low.

I hear You when the world is quiet enough,
in the spaces betwixt sounds.




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