While Reading Ouspensky

He gave a book to me to read him in,
as if it were a key to see his heart,
as if it were a magic talisman
to treasure, that can wedge the rocks apart
to plumb the reach of his experience
and visit metaphysic mystery,
to make of alchemy a seventh sense
and gaze at his elected history.

Four hundred heavy pages in my hand
for me to digest paragraphs each day:
I’m pushing at ideas to understand
the lesson and the learner, but dismay
with forty pages left is hard to brook,
and I may end the love before the book.

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