Each night the buddha requests you
to turn your restless soul
towards its own humble concerns,

The clean shaven
transplant suburban monk
of central New Jersey.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

Deep in a wood of pines
he labors through stale dawn
her arrival possessing his mind
unaware of Fates withdrawn,

The silence stretches out of range
as pause of hand brings lonesome pain
this little machine he builds all day
to shield his soul from her delay.

As a child grasping tokens
tight so that the spectral
lesson of loss
turns knuckles sore,

The first anxiety strikes –
to toss coins down
metal deposit drains means
to possess no more,

The games all now inadequate
when knowing one must choose
or remain unused.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

As I recover behind a shed
panting chill sweat
I recall the many times at night
that I ran here to confront
the black and white skeletons
of the trees behind the school,
a wall of mangled bones
like the end of the world.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

Photo by Edward Cohen.

Before he left town she promised her heart
Should souls display doubt while bodies apart,
He shouldered his bags with his witness of G-d;
What began with fierce passion now ends with a nod.

Flashing glow,
outside our children
          visit shrines,

Soft rain,
a child in the wooden gate stall
          forgotten.