All the stupas scattered across mountains
and along far-flung paths are formed into bells
Heaven would have dropped in front of us
if it could—to round and harmonize
man’s heart with empyreal sound.
A drop of Heaven, gliding down
or waiting, suspended, until
the one intended comes at last
to be gathered in compassion
where an eye meets a divine eye.
And so the question always remains,
the question every stupa asks:
by what steps does Heaven
let us enter such a spirit’s heart?
In those revenant reveries
and so defying the lethargy of endings,
many come and enter—
though only briefly,
dipping no more than lightly
into those coral eyes,
they would suddenly turn
into drifting sailors
launched on the boundlessness
of everlasting seas
where all are bound to sink--
so much more potent is
that pristine light
than a touch of Styx.
A petite fountain
Is gurgling up
Its nether stream
Through a silver film
In quiet parallel
To our cinemas,
their caves
and darkened screens.
And those little
garden leaves
quiver side by side,
in unison even
with her knees—
all become one lover’s fan.
