Yuugen Gulf
Adultish, balconied home
white walls, white people, white
wine. Leader is essentially stupid,
and she’s basically intelligent, unless
it’s the other way around. In the country, cities.
And in cities, houses. Workers who work,
bourgeois who bourgeois. No time for details
in class struggle. Cats haunt a home,
shifting photos; all’s quiet. Bus
leaves every hour, but nothing
escapes – not the dust
climbing windows like snow, not the mass
of shared senses: warming radiator’s tick, slap
of wet and chapped hands, blood orange
sky’s smear of rockets. Confused
triumph. She is in the night; solitude of one
awake among the sleeping, over desert village
worth of lights among endless black miles,
village no map will reveal. In this terror
of no explanation, she is looking. Landscape
of unclaimed silence, ash blue and ochre.
It gets under skirts. Where is her face?
go to:
Adam Day
“Padmasambhava”
“Bosatsu Basswood”
“Inki Fen”
“Sambhava”
“Viridian Akasa”
“Sakya”