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,

[3 a.m. crickets, wall of sound: the ghosts of monks chanting in the yard]

                                        Their mind mass slows to the cool
September air, the tempo a function of temperature,
their self-explanatory dying, told without pity. Count the beats
to know how much impersonal darkness they have left.
I can’t hear it impersonally. I want to personify the sound.
I believe there is someone making that sound,
even if my someone is only dark splinters on the ground.
I feel it’s talking to me, and somehow performing my mind.
If I can’t take it any longer, I will throw open the front door
of my house and yell at them. They will grow quiet for a moment
as if listening to me. And then they (no they there) will continue
their chant. The sound will close back over me
like starlight, and I will drown in that.