Poetry

Zinnias were stalking.
The fading moon hangs upside down
from the massive Ficus tree.

Ultimately the grace withdraws.
Now you sit under the bo-tree
becoming a wet Buddha.

Unthinking, unblinking
falling out of thoughts,
and start supervising the barren landscape.

The dawn sets free, the white
pegions to become prey of ravens.
Would you talk about peace?

The evil touches every next door.
I will write a long letter
to me, to unwrite the sermons.