The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.

     Sand to glass
        for a window or
          fun-house mirror.

Brain grains made of waiting,
                                 of watching.
Recognition of patterns recorded.
                Faces in old photographs,
                     "Look! That's me!"
  The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
                             light thru the film
                                     projected on a wall,
                                 fuzz of dust on the vinyl.

          Motes of knowing
                       floating
                                            but tough under pressure,
                                  and in the liquid of pure,
                                                           ­            transparent
                                                                ­       experience,

                                                    ­                     soluble.

In this is a poem,
flowing thru and over the stones of language,
a bed for a restless body.

Somewhere here is a poem,
behind and beneath the walls,
impounded as so much sound unspoken.

The glass before you
holds a poem,
both transparent,
one delicate when presented
the floor.

The poem is rushing,
brimming, tidal in its own surface tension,
held smooth and blue until the tipping point of pressure,
when it slips over the stones,
the walls,
the glass broken
and spills downhill
over the homes,
the fields
and farms,
white spray
finding shape in the valley
where you stand on the shore,
where you bend down to drink.

The river,
the dam,
the cup
is not
the water.

no self
no sacrifice
Zen Christ
in each of us
keeping quiet