Camp Kenosis

Be extravagant and empty! At break of a cold dawn’s call

relinquish every craving, squander the most secure camel,

the freshest of the flock, for a card game and let the smallest

prayerful clinging be left broken on clumped sand,

scorching every desire at your forsaken camp.

Rest, reflect, consider on the long climb towards a place to stand,

this companionless walk through acres of crisp stalks, thick

unwoven vines, a dormant volcano steaming sulphur from the crater

and circle obsessively the cracked mirror gleaming against a single

Sycamore and linger, look cleanly into your true face: that face

before your bloody breech birth.

Quick! Act kenotic. Look up the word if unrecognized. It’s Greek

to you and me. As the tall monk proclaims: “Silence is God’s original

language, everything else, just a poor translation.”

Carelessly, courageously take the unknown inside your dark uncovered home,

where the new guest, home from hospital, this swaddled friend of chaos,

tiny night crying king of confusion might magically become unchosen balm,

coherent and composed in this flow of completion, this scintillation

of starlight, camel dung and wonder where all, above and under,

are strangely calm and weaving love letters to every stranger.