Translations from the Flesh

Eastern Winter Time

3 eastern Winter Time I was entirely asleep, moon at my window Like a burglar come to steal the darkness inside. Letting go of everything—that was Buddha’s dream, not mine. Mine was to hang on by the slippery tip of each finger, Even if the rain blew sideways in a bloat of wind Like the swarmy voices of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Mine was to scratch a living from the empty page, Not to proofread suicide notes before the blood dried. Did it matter when I woke? For my alarm, I should buy an hourglass cramped with snow. Out in the hunter’s dark, the stars glared down at me. But the heart is a moving target. ...