Make the pilgrimage to your own chest.

Why travel to Mecca, Benares,
Jerusalem or Rome?

This motion of blossoming
round the Khaba stone
is the golden whorl of Allah's gaze,
the healing gesture

of Christ's left hand,

divine amazement

in a frond of lavender.

The soft rose of the galaxy

and the gentle cyclone of this breath

are one circular path.

Is your heart not the wine press
of friendship, your eyebrows
snowy peaks of bread

distributed to the poor?

Is your belly not a well-aged cask
of happiness,
the crown of you head a cup
full of lightning?

Gaze into your flesh, friend.
Your bronchial tube is the well of stars.

Could there be a single
infinitesimal dot of your body
that does not overflow with
the nectar you’ve been thirsting for?