I looked for you
in the margins of old Vedic texts
deep in the darkest back rooms
of every remote library
in Southern Michigan

it took years of
quiet, contemplative study
scratching pen tips across
blank printer paper with
a blown-out A.M. radio
drawling on for company
as manuscript by manuscript
I pieced together a thesis
of sorts

then suddenly there you were,
not a secret spell or
forgotten incantation
but a miracle of spirit;
the heart of the world
made manifest
by a power all its own

the shelves and walls
trembled at your arrival,
shaking loose sconces
and finishing nails and
masonry stones while
a draft blew through
from somewhere cold
and the radio finally gave up

and I could not look at you
directly, but
through the gleam
of your magnificence
I could finally make out
all the sacred mysteries
in those ancient moulding pages
that I never would have gleaned
in an infinity
with all the ruddy candlelight
in the whole wide world