ZAZEN

As the pale light of dawn
bleeds through the shōji
we eat a thin gruel
of rice with a pickled plum
from black lacquered bowls

the wind blows cold
we hear the lonesome cries
of wintering gulls
as a temple bell resounds
and a train rattles by

a monk in an indigo robe
strikes a meditator's shoulders
with a stick of cherry wood
fiercely repeatedly
until it snaps!