Are We Not Intimate?

No “appointment” can be made,
No formality engaged,
In turning to The Beautiful One,
Nearer than near…

For are we not Intimate?

Such propriety is taken by Her,
As an insult to the Intimacy of our Love,
An affront to its Unconditionality,
And I am left standing, counting beads…

For are we not Intimate?

Wondering what, why and how,
How to do “right”, and not do “wrong”,
How to approach again, “correctly”,
I break Her Heart.


If I approach Her door staggering,
Drunk on the Remembrance of Love,
And stand there, forgetting to knock,
She opens… and rushes to me…

For are we not Intimate?

For us, there can be no preparation,
No “proper” setting of the stage,
In expectation, anticipation,
Of arriving, touching, holding.

For are we not Intimate?

She responds only and Always,
To Tender, Gentle Longing,
An affectionate turning Within,
In which instant She stands…

Not in a distant Heaven, but… Here.

Whether She is God,
Whether She is what “I Am”,
Whether Transcendent or Immanent,
She remains an Unfathomable Mystery…

But oh… so Intimately so.