Only the private is holy; the soft light
On the yellowing page of a book, the print
Legible as stars on the open page of the sky
Or the languid letter you write at midnight to a faraway

Friend, stern only to timorous sleep. Do you think
Jesus was director of a philanthropic foundation?
Or Buddha the babbling, balding, amiable president of an NGO?
Beyond the incense and flywhisks of those

Gaunt keepers of salvation, their Lofty Holinesses, the Most Ancient and Supreme Guardians of the Truth,

They have escaped their disciples, cool
as clouds.
There is more in half an hour’s indolence
Than in galloping away after the grail.