i reach out to contact You, Shiva, but i cannot dent the dense interior coronavirus haze. i cannot reach You, so i drop into a deep daze. i sink. i float. i snag upon thorny vasanas, empty & drained of energy, joy & liveliness. the body resembles a zombie refugee, slow, heavy as gravity, composed of mud, meat & bone, now absolved by unthinking, unfeeling raw dark sleep. void of intent & organization, there is rest, a descent & upsurge, a cleansing, a long release. Shiva, reduced in vitality by a virus, i look for You behind the moving shadow surface anyway, for only You give the depth that i seek, the height that i aim for & the strength to continue. i am Your own primal kin returning now to You. i bring poems, offered like the tinsel gifts of crows, sincerely grateful that You are here to receive them, these small shiny bright innocent tributes i give now. OM NAMAH SHIVAYA
THIS HAPPENED 