Even within this small planetary realm
there are infinite, wondrous worlds
of unimaginable beauty.
This planet itself sails around a small star
in an immense galaxy of stars, while that galaxy
floats in a vastness embracing billions of other galaxies.
All of these galaxies arise within a universe
which is still but a drop in the totality
of endless manifestation.
Even so, no one
has ever gone anywhere,
nothing has ever happened.
No struggle for grace has taken place,
no soul has been finally liberated,
nor daunting demon cast down.
No lovers have at last been united,
nor bitter enemies divided.
No light shines on in some mirror bright,
no darkness shadows the land at night.
Not even one small drop of the rain of Bliss –
what the poets refer to as Grace or This –
has fallen from the Sky of Heart,
nor any arrow pierced it.
At any given or taken time,
there is no time, nor anything
to see, to feel, to acquire or know.
Seeing, feeling, grasping, knowing
are figments of time, but our time ran out
before it began, while we persisted in dreaming.
There are no lessons to learn, no paths to tread,
no brave hero’s journey ending in a triumph
reserved for the gone and grateful dead.
Nothing bound, so nothing loosed,
nothing to hide, so nothing to be found ahead.
All that we’ve learned must be forgotten —
the one who knows that can be forgotten too.
What is, is, and yet it cannot be accounted for,
yielded to in ordinary or exotic sacrificial rituals,
dogmatically affirmed, denied, nor even pointed to –
“it” being nothing other than the pointing, pointing
at itself in the exact direction of nowhere in particular
yet quite specific in each case, even as it drops a coin
in the jukebox slot and pushes the button, choosing
a random little nothing to enhance the romance,
the poignant, bittersweet dance of dreamers
asleep in a dark and measureless deep.