'Arise! Watch.'


There is a curl of white
lined marble near the
throat of the Taj. Like a
locked elbow it makes
a stern arch of its surroundings.

Pushing light onto it, tracing
the convex,
concave,

holding a finger high
in the hot sky, almost
feeling the curve of the
stone,

tracing a slim
limb of rock
in silence.



4.

Does the paint
add to the canvas
or the canvas
to the pigment?

Stripping negative from
positive,
what's left?

Between paint and
painted is there
nothingness, or
even the
possibility of such?

A spoon's slick of olive
oil dripped onto a
lake will
            still it.
Ripples ironed
to a smooth
circle,

one molecule
thin.


                              'Therefore form is matter.'

5.

In everything, we see
light.     An extract of
movement committed to
panel, seeped into
parchment, makes form.

It and we are defined.
Happy, without hope of
            knowing,
we digress.

And a sweep of blackness
dictates what we are,
what we see, and
alive we

are both real and
impermanent.



6.

Matsya

in a still
pool

slipping beneath
ripples

cool

hugs
the bevel
of moss
bank

circles
twisting a

backbone

pulling
a tail

against still
wave

seeking the
solitude of
circles

or half
circles

gyrates



7.

Will you move
in the instance of
space with me?
Scratching in black
lines gods and
monsters like
Greek gods screaming
like Bon monsters
grinning in gompas.

Will you stop
still,     rest
in the no-space
of painted and
paint?
Brushing a broad
stroke aside, I'm
reminded of a
crescent moon seen
hanging in autumn:

In fruit trees
near Hemis, bristles
of night-light
struck apricots;
later, at dawn, curved
horns sang a
morning into existence.



8.

'Do therefore what is right, for good
deeds never bring pain.'
                - Dhammapada


'Many births of me and thee have passed. . .'
                - Bhagavadgita