|By Katina Huston|
The smooth stones blessed in Quan Yin’s radius,
shaded by the rambling ficus, give way
to the pale paisleys of my bed sheets, mussed
in slow rising to the views of a day.
Soon the traffic of the busiest blocks
filters tidally through my maculae
and into my mouth, parted as I saw
on the serene Buddha faces arrayed
everywhere I went in Ayutthaya.
Where I sit like this is all one locus,
where my thoughts’ weight and quantity withdraw
becoming as light and few as the skies
I’ve known. All seats are found in the same straw.
All breath is drawn from one well. As it slows
I count the cycles lifting away. Here
the meat of a being that sees and moves
recalls the unity it itself proves.