The red berry
tree appears
clad in mala
beads...I'm
compelled to
run them through
my fingertips...
while chanting:
blue, blue, blue
sky.

Glassy-eyed, peering
into the mirror...
with granting clarity
my image appeared
in my pupils.
More became less...
as the image betrayed
expendability.
I felt joy in fracticality.

It's the sensation
of holding a bird
in the palm of
your hands...its
silky belly and
prickly feet want
free.
There's so much
warmth created
just by holding
that upward energy.
To bind wings to
a ball...
the mind should avoid
that at the moment
of death.

The hour is early,
on the hour...
the hour is late.
The hour whispers
among itself.
Its silence overspreads
all its whispers...
hushed tones as
porous white of
broken bread.

As always...
in a word, leaving
off where it begins.
Meaning is derived
by its center.

A well, with
its myopic view
of the sky...
never new how
its water ended
up in the sky...
love.

White answerable
to white...black
the perimeter
sworn to silence.