When we have aped the orchard,
gathered the stars from its apex,
suffered its horizontal timbers,
our bellies are full of waking:
We are Buddhas in the shade
of the door we have yet to enter.
Our wanting to own pyramids,
we witness as a rain.
The world we know may collide
with the edge that grinds our lenses
until slowly they recognize
a solipsistic planet rolling in the idea
of chaos: a clearer day than today.
But we have adjusted our grip
from the empty banana skins
to the louse beneath the fur
and to the rock under our feet. And
at our right and left a wash-out marks
the dawn when our organs are seals’ noses
and we dream of two caged lovebirds
in a car that winds into the wilderness.