He traveled East three thousand miles
but ended up three thousand miles West.
At a certain juncture, he almost ran into himself,
but that would have been awkwardly premature.
There was still quite a lot that needed to happen
on the way before he could recognize himself.
He started out not knowing, but on the road
he acquired ideas that took a while to drop off.
The bones need to be scoured clean, smooth —
there should be no trace of any story left behind.
Even the destination eventually becomes moot.
The revelation isn’t elsewhere, that’s the revelation.
Traveling this way, two hands clasp in mid-air,
an inner truth and an outer truth touch and merge.
It is not self-knowledge, there is no right word for it.
It is like finding an empty room behind the last door.
You enter in, then the light in the room goes out.
When the light returns, you are not there.