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Liars to the Lions (from: Patching the Flower-My Buddhist Poems).

Posted to Poetry

(They are worse than ghosts.)

Tell me.

Tell me again.

(The dark divides.) "At

Dawn you were born,
Now go to sleep."

(I fell from a tree
In the middle of
The sea) The only

Tree for miles, smiles. Now

It's heart is a spear, and

The rest we'll burn in the kitchen.


Dice and teeth. Flags
Soaked in perfume.

Did you say these are yours?
I do. Mustard seed

Feeds flat stomach. He has

Grown. Can you



We crossed into sometimes.
Now continuous. A riot of
"We", the swollen face
Of Care like a fly
In the absence of

Life. I had my chest
Of snapshots, my
Furious eyebrow, my
Three demons with
Incurable questions, the

Chapters inching up from
The love of flesh
That wants to guess
For every creature my
Old bite. (The endless

May be mistaken.)

Identity conceived.

Where do we place the eye?


Empty danger, the young
Tone of emblem sung
Into machine. It may

Happen at the mouth
Of the future. It may

Happen at the mouth
Of the past. It may

Pulp the minutes into myth
And store them in a jar.

It may progress as habit more than memory.

Repetition cannot console intellect.

Instinct cannot console repetition's

Particular gleam of

Know myself.
No myself.