for Amanda


there he is, swami ji.  god is love, he says.

this love is teaching me how to eat bread
again, to feel each grain against
my tongue, each a literal sun

dissolving down my throat.
who can explain the comings and goings
of the heart.  we're born into these human bodies

and we hunger after salt,
after beer with pancakes,
a little Bach with our vodka,

some Shiva shambho with our late-night sardines caught fresh off the coast of Ecuador, how
i wish each one of them to eat such bread, and i think how

she has said she is Shams to my Rumi and i liken this then to the little bit of salt
one throws into sourdough to bring

out its sharp tang, and
i row out to the shore of such longing and i find

more bread, wishing to give it to all the children
living in ruined stoves on beds of crematorium ash in the deepest alleys
of india, wishing to take it out of my mouth and put it
into theirs, for there are no tears to compensate

for this, because this is the bread
of our most profound joy, which has no leavening,
because this has no degreees of falling and rising,

this is the dance that follows
us, the love that breathes in the shadow of our walking
forward, that bread that breaks
on the plate before us from some field

in iowa or wisconsin, breaking to say
there is nothing to say about such love,
because we can talk and talk and talk
(and oh how so many do),

because i love this man, this simple yogi swami ji,
for he is not god, he is simply love.