I dug up the last of them
from the backyard
and plucked each
from a rusty coffee can.
Creased and yellowed,
I smoothed them out,
tracing their folds
with my dirt-caked fingernails.

These are all of my secrets I tell you.
Synonymous with mistakes you tell me.

In that moment, something leaden,
like guilt,
threads through my pursed lips,
but I don’t let it pull tight.
I carefully rip each stitch, instead,
and remember why they were buried.
With my seamless smile,
I grin widely, without doubt,
knowing it was okay
to finally let them breathe.

nomad
hungry ghost
trembling hands
outstretched
forever seeking
that which does not
sustain

alms
for the golden
empty bowl
offerings laid
on the morning altar
until there is
no barrier

only
giver and receiver
giving and receiving
adjoined
without end
that which circles
becomes eternal

all is but illusion
we remain
unbound
released from suffering
what was fractured
in wholeness
will be found.

There’s this you in you
merging wide into the infinity
and seeping deep into the infinitesimal,
from your immutable stillness watching
the phenomenal you
in a very hot turmoil—

He looks me in the face smiling. 
I listen to him—his words,
like clean pebbles, tangible.
The thundersquall subsides outside
and a quiet creeps into the room,
snuggling for warmth.

From a leak in the roof drips rain water
into a copper ***.

I listen to him—his words,
like clean pebbles, tangible.