The Final Match
A POEM
My very breath seems evidence of You.
My pulse throbs with a Spirit not my own.
The warmth within my body is somehow
more than mine,
And life itself seems to be but on loan.
And strangely You seem more real than all
The things around that I can see or feel.
The hand that holds the pencil seems
sometimes but a dream,
But You, Whom I can’t touch, completely real.
How strange it is to know You, know
You well —
To know You better than the concrete world —
To know You not in logic, but as answer
As if a map had slowly been uncurled.
It is a vision of the heart — no eyes
Can see the Phantom Bearer of the map,
But the heart falls down before its unexpected Guest
And knows that it has met its final match.
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Poetry was once understood to be an anthropological episteme, a way of knowing, if only through a glass darkly.