1554
29 March 2011
1548
Once whispered, you,
Descried by a touchless me;
Of turbid vessels, we:
In self-confliction entwined.
Imagined our warm wooden room
Of no tree in perfection wrought
By a threadbare mutual I.
Yes palpable by heat,
Your solitary hand
And seaside hair:
Not physicality,
But a tautened string of thought
Was for a time our slight selves.
14 March 2011
1536
Was that today, my daughter?
We seemed as younger selves,
Dressed in future swiftness,
With a rational countryside of time
Beneath our joined hands.
Through iterations of incidental honesty
Are our yesterdays to this present fixed,
And the landscape crossed with crooked years.
We sifted happenstance for what quality?
It was fast, it was all of love.
23 February 2011
1521
The Such-zen by the Painted Rocks
Was a locus of a thought
That conjured a path that is not a path,
Knowledge that is without knowing,
And the easy human reverence for custom,
For the stone by repetition worn.
A human god has tasted salt,
And taken the full measure of an hour under the sun
And thought's necessity,
And seen his reflection in others on life sentence.
Knowing's not belief but the being of oneself without
Incurious devotion.
Desire disquantitied's but a hand outstretched,
Inviting and abiding its nature.
10 February 2011
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