ancestral knowledge

in the presence of poets
you will feel the most

look up at the clouds
gasping, we are out
of the ashes

plant the seeds
they give you
and make more fruit

softness of hands,
a pen with no ink
traces vanished words

the meaning of the koan
comes when not

I wish I could
walk invisible
with poets along the shore

hawk flown over
my sky so many times
come down to talk to me

thank you to my dead
who must be
pulling strings for me

raw nerved & flooded
veins confessing

now I will be
a disciple
of kindness

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