The bowl of fruit
sits as fruit has sat
for all eternity

You speak something
Absolute

The fruit fills space
with silence
or,
refracts the silence
of space.

Your Home
exists in me

though someone
sometimes
looks for it,
as though I or It
were lost.

Who makes the trees move
crooked shadows on the page

who places the bowl of fruit
behind the Master

what permeates
everything
but is not
anything,

belongs nowhere

yet is everywhere
present?

It must be in the fruit
the bowl
the Master
the Self and self

Nonexistent
perfume
the silence of our
Beloved heaven
interwoven with
Hands
Anger
Freedom
The sun and moon
The fly and the apple

Every apparent
digression
and
return

The unmoving dances
in front
of this Satsang
and the fruit
sings
behind it.