KENSHO

Tonight, if all goes well, I will be
a monk in a good-sized Buddhist temple.
I am hoping it will be in Nara,
at Todai-ji perhaps, or Asakusa
at Senso-ji, or better still somewhere
in Kyoto, although it might well be
in the Myanmar jungle or somewhere
deep within the Laotian highlands.

One problem with that world is
that I have no control over it, which,
come to think of it, leaves it
like the waking world which
has never hewn to my direction.

I’ve had this desire for weeks
on end, and I suspect tonight
will be no different, and I will spend
eight hours sorting files, writing
cease and desist letters and trying
to convince myself that even that
is a form of mindful meditation
and abiding kensho will arrive
in the next rapid eye movement.

ARRIVAL

He arrived this afternoon,
but she stayed only briefly
and then departed silently.
I did not see her arrive,
did not sense his stay
but am certain he was there,
just as I am certain
he has never been here.
When she is here, you
cannot see her, when
she is gone, your memory
is a mere delusion, and
grasping it is graspng air.
Breathing in, the air
is his breath, and breathing
out the breath is hers,
and this is kensho.