"It's not a spectator sport!"


Enter this circular hall,
head bowed, hand up in a turn.


As breath touches the drum,
and prayer plucks soft the strings.

The Beloved moves about the room, pleading:

Drop that untouchable hope of becoming!

Rip the grasp of generations
from Clenched fists,
and expire.

Our feet are now one beat,
As the tight breath of self
melts to a pool, in the circle of sound.

Sweet kindness,
sweeter sorrow.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh ... hh .. hhhhh

Look back,
Across the veil, nothing ever kept us
from you.