To pray at the flowing water

to clean, washed hands flowing over,

with a face of eager, flush waiting,

is the only worship I know

The ritual of wind-scented perfume,

ether in color, sounds gushing and

trailing, peels from the mind its

lacquered finish.

I kneel and stoop, head bowed and

shaven, always to find my soul peering

back at me in the moment of human

stillness. This is where the gradation

of time ceases and an irrational

doorway opens only to drop out the

belly of being, the bottom of the altar.



Ft. Knox