He’s eaten nothing all day
Except his own words
At the end of sentences,
Which he washes down
With an occasional sip
Of the electrolyte water
On his bedside table.

He’s read nothing all day
Except his own palms,
Cupped as a folded leaf,
I don’t know whether to
Receive divine healing grace
Or offer up his own divinity
To the nondual infinite.

His beatific smile is scaring me.