Zen is not your irony.
Board. Raindrop on eye glass,
singular pigeon. I roll
my pencil toward you,
the pencil runs back
across a desk top.
There’s a constant
earthquake bridge
making this motion,
human communication.
Score another one
for ancient supercomputer
Buddha. Ingrained
ways of being quiet,
useful. The flower
is held by a stem
but appears to hover.
It’s this effect
we see, and
not the thing
It lifts us
by trick
of yellow bloom,