oh shams

Shams, Shams, Oh Shams,
I hang my head in shame, dear dearest Shams.
What is it with me, with my stupid stupid heart?
It goes all over the place, like a stray dog,
looking for a cut of meat that it can sink into,
with its fangs and claws, tearing off strips
and licking its chops with glutton's delight.
Why can't it just sit and be still, like the mystics,
and meditate on the nature of God,
or whirl in place in its own ecstatic dance,
white tent-like robes and ruby crusted sleeves?
Shams, Oh Shams, Shams,
My muse, my poet, my inspiration,
I would like to gouge it from me and all
the trouble it brings, bubbling and pulsing,
clutching and conniving, all those pains.
So much better I would be if it were caged,
if it weren't allowed to pounce on my chest,
and look me in the eye.
Dear dearest Shams, I am made of the
dust of time immemorial as are you,
as are we all,
so why can't I have that perspective instead?