XLVI.
Lord, goes the prayer, increase my bewilderment,
which really means allow me to question
everything, but not be lost within that
stance to the small flowers of common sense
in season. Increase, Lord, my discontent.

XLVII.
But keep me from resentment. Reason as well
has its season, although we don’t believe it,
or put too much faith in it. It’s true that
one and one, on occasion, is three or more.
And the middle way is often mystical.

XLVIII.
Lord, goes the prayer, keep me from delusion.
Which really means allow my mind to open
to all that comes my way, without bringing
ruin upon me—through fusion of things that are
distinct at heart. Keep me from conclusion.

XLIX.
While the case is being made. And the world
is all that is the case. Keep me from too much
seclusion. Increase my confusion with
Thee, it says. But is that in fact another
matter, I wondered, as the dervishes whirled?

L.
And may my love and language lead me into
that perplexity, and that simplicity,
altering what I might otherwise be.
But let it happen through speech’s clarity—
as normal magic, which certain words renew.

Peter Cole | from “Notes on Bewilderment”

(Source: books.google.com)