string seventeen

sometimes I go
behind buildings
to breathe

*

I watch
dumpster Buddha
warm the snow

*

mostly it’s steam
from things
we love

*

I’m a carp
through several
fish-scaled lives

*

I wake up
next to a poem
who no longer loves me

*

I feed seagulls
get arrested for it

things are looking up

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Sitting

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
itself.
It lifts us
by trick
of yellow bloom,
thought
as.