Sixty something summers pass
bones turned transparent
Worlds whirled by, many things
fixed/broken, souls saved
from themselves, yet something-
i wouldn’t call it an oxen’s tail
all the koans neglected coffeee
he said - ” Keep digging, there’s always
soil beneath your fingernails
beads of sweat descend your hair.
Shouldering the burden
at once you become
the question thrusts up
- what to leave
what could this question mean even?
I harbor suspicion at object permanence
or a bridge from dream to dream
if the void calls please
simply take a message
put on hold
we’ re busy communicating
with ourselves the bloodline is serious
in a lawn chair
in the air.
The autumn smelled like lapsong souchong
the moon was much less gawked at
the skeleton shed ideals
like crimson leaves.