Talked about Guatama

"She had asked him to talk about Guatama and she could not hear enough about him: how pure his eyes, how still and lovely his lips, how kind his smile, how peaceful his gain..." – Hesse, from Siddhartha











The North is the honest thing. For it keeps repeating
all your life the same stuff – whispering, in full volume,
in the life dragged on, in all kinds of voices;" – Brodsky


And Buddha, of the cessation of all worldly things,
of finding the volume dial that loops like gears
along the tiles of the brain; electrodes, synapse,
the dendrites dance all day along inside against
the white flashing of the cold that covers the bay.
So we have unknowingly learned to live, not pray,

and in its absence I have always waited for snow,
snow of mind, that comes down in soft contours,
pulls in like the sick the noises of the day
then lands not ever lonely but lively blankets
born to show us something of thanks as fisherman
bow down to a gleeful stance and to a line yank.