The light at the end of knowing must be the calm of a lake
suddenly settling into itself to become a mirror of unrippled
sky like the gentle exhale of the Hindu monk who sat
in the wide leather chair, his whole body draped
by the orange folds of his robe.
His eyes water still.

If I could have, I would have
reached cupped hands and filled them
with the glassy sheen of his green eyes
as he chanted in my living room, those words
living room meaning something different that morning.
What is the word for knowing you are not close to knowing?