Always beyond the gates.
Outside the city.
To the desert. The wilderness.
Beyond the limits of my control.
For that which I seek does not dwell
in temples of stone made with hands,
or sanctuaries of words made with pen or mouth.
Just because I write a fence for the Mystery
doesn’t mean I’ve captured it,
for my fences are always full of holes,
and the Mystery has already moved
while I turned to construct the compound.
The Mystery is wild and will not be owned,
but has condescended to freely dwell
in the smallest of vessels.
I dove into a cup and found
an ocean without shores.