Void and coincidence and blessing
at our heels; the right words at the wrong time
trip over stream rocks and cling to twigs.
Followed and hounded, we step into emptiness.
We cannot carry this heavy world
though at times it fits into the small of our backs.
Little Buddhas spread across the table top;
smoke signals from our fingertips;
find us here. Behind the ham and cobs,
we claim to know so much from this mud reflection.
We touch the tip of thank you. Gratitude won’t fit
into our mouths. The consonants and vowels we speak:
after all this time of presumed fluency, we’ve uttered
mispronunciation and misunderstanding.
Our names engraved heaven’s cemetery stones.
After we die, we reach our zombie hands—we blind creeps--
And feel for our identities in this dust where we’ve returned.
A breath of laughter encompasses all revelation. Speak to us
in days when lilies are enough.
