Shoshin

a beginner's mind, already
mined of all its small silly
Saturday attachments. The
expected eggs like eyes, and
half a biscuit buttered. The
meter of the matter has it's
own tremor, A certain Self.

 

A cracked cup, with all the liquid

pooling, eventually everything

slips out. Even secrets,
especially those. I can finally
see the bottom. It is
a very deep mouth.

I could count the petals of winters
or roses; I could sing puja,
I could bow before traditions,
a child's mind, an empty mantra,
the buttercup yellow dress
outgrown. I wished on dandelion's
breath, I wished on skipping stones,
I counted the ripples but forgot
the center, the gate, the hill.

 

Sitting in my own ring

of influence, I am

the only one here, but mined
of all expectations, love or sin,
original transfiguration, the
tin man's only desire was for a heart,
and all he got was a clock.

Sometimes I think its enough of
a gift, this body ticking in time
to constellations. My new skin,
a new liver, the light of cells
in orbit, filled with satellites,
supernova's die
like every other sun. My empty
mind is a ready mine,

a nursery for new stars.