Monday, April 25, 2016

Even My Company Forsakes Me (for Salvador Quasimodo)

John, my spiritual doppelgänger,
it was nice to know
when you were around.
My sangha brothers and sisters
profusely scattered 
after the change.
At least, I can talk to my brother, 
now that the medicine
allows him to be human.

I've gone to thoughts
are scattered like electronic
milkweed...who knows if they'll
land on fertile soil? A few new
friends are taking root in my life...
heaven help them; I pre-apologize.

Not even life is the way
of all lives...nothing special...they
may remember a poem of mine,
but they won't remember me; the
ones that do will also die.

No monuments, please...why
pretend eternity? Sure, use of me
what you weathered 
New England barn wood, use me
to redecorate your minds. I'm worth
at least as much as a few tin cans.

There is, after all, only one poem,
written in so many ways by so many.
There is only one heart we share...
It's time we all know this.
Why else do we save the poems
of those dead a thousand years?

Because there is only one heart, 
one mind, that sees things clearly:

the right one.


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