I haven’t found you in churches or meetings for worship.
Not in incense, collars, or bowing to the altar.
You’re not in good works or in bad works, in the moment or over time.
Not in copious study or being admitted as a guest.
I focused on a point between my eyebrows: I felt sick.
I travelled to your ashram: you weren’t there or had just departed.
Except when the sky turned suddenly red.
And the old man who admonished me, with such kindness, for wasting water.
