I am in Target, trying to find those
small travel-size kits of shampoo and soap,
drifiting away from the task at hand,
thinking about Pascal burning 
at midnight in his room, his eyes 
ablaze with God, stitching his epiphany
next to his heart.

We are not at one with this world. We lay
foundations for homes we will not
inhabit. Tea cools untouched.
Books lie open to chapters we will
not finish. Under the gray sky
we are restless, weary,
walking without vision,
with shortness of breath.

If we think God is up there,
we are lonely always. If the strong man
could know when the thief would
break in, he would
bar all doors and windows.

The door is unlatched, Silent One,
Mysterium Tremendum. Enter at
will; set ablaze this heart.