Poem:
In a kernel, in the
Stomach of a squirrel,
Hiding in the lopped
Rotten tree in the centre
Of a forest, my journal.
On a branch a leopard lies.
224.
Though power within
An hour is strong; timelessness
Does not yield to wrongs.
225.
Newspapers on tables,
Just diurnal interruptions
To my own practice.
223.
The Season’s first Robin;
Transcends folklore’s red weights
With hollowed-out bleach.
222.
That mist, which had lived
Through centuries, lifted. Frogs,
Green, and eels returned.
219.
Autumn. Time has no
Issue thoughts cannot resolve.
Firm, the universe holds.
220.
Thoughts, like footprints
In thick snow, leave imprints;
These, in time, must go.
221.
A magpie’s heartbeat
Keeps her warm. So too, do I,
Until dawning thaws.
217.
This is a prayer, a bead
To the captains of industry
Who bought me this tea.
218.
All poets were corralled,
then, and shot, one by one; eyes
Painted over with oil.
216.
Before the horses hooves
The final fennel scattered.
Nothing later mattered.
215.
Life’s pigeon holes, guano
Covered. These white cells demarcate
The space, the dates of Kings.
212.
All the things which had
Flourished, now like grey flints of
Butterflies malnourished.
213.
Rest, Autumnal edge;
Everyone is in everyone else.
Homeless, in this house.
214.
Mastery understands
That there is no such thing as
Mastery. Only this.
211.
We’re more than our stories
Permit us. Stories furnish
And fire up in our bellies.
