Not like a dancer,

or a fool kept from death

by incredible circumstance.

There is a grace transcending

theory or debate, when you

so become yourself

that there is no other,

no other context,

no other thought,

or desire.

It is the grace of being

so right for your moment

that you fulfill the world,

unkillable in your fitness

and knowing nothing more

than your own movement,

perfect in its authority.

It is a grace so clear

that it can only be

and cannot conceive itself,

a ring of water,

widening the light

on a small pond,

an answer

without reflection.