Cure

What is the best poetic way to reach
down into a well – no fallen graces – 
and come up with a light emitting
from the tip of the index finger,
showing the way to where camels rest
on their front knees, carriage on backs,
and a path uncomplicated: so simple
in following, leading straight to water:
so true in properties, quenching thirst:
so minimal in craving, ushering to land:
so vast in plainness. I have been 
like warm smoke from cooling wood,
knowing what never gets spoken
is the point of drop from the hand
that let go, leaving me to find the way – 
of no theorized routes – to your
ungripped nature.

*Previously published at Whispers