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Daniello
Poems
Mar 2012
A Transient Irony
Even nirvana must be empty.
Even silent revelation must allow herself to be taken, afterward,
by noise.
Kept, perhaps, might be a few
thoughts—the principles of salvation, maybe, easily incorporated
orts
soaked up, scooped with bread.
Chewed, passed—as everything, habitually—disintegrated into in-
visible
fuel for the festering divisions.
(Precisely those divisions sought to be stilled by breathing deeply,
crossing
the legs of, still, a body.) But
even nirvana must be swallowed by the Buddha’s gaping mouth
of transience.
For afterward, must it not stay,
still, the same? After achievement? Yes, I like to mock as I loll, in
naivety,
but I am also a talented nurturer
of it. I know behind is something quite valuable. A transient irony,
perhaps.
Written by
Daniello
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