Day Two

waking

in early hours it comes
high wind on the high plain

in memory of skies long since
dawn improvised
from night’s spare parts

windows storm rattled
mist to light
sound of sweeping in the courtyard
first flies adorn the casement

then when the rain settles
gentle on the world below

voice of a goat from city depths

tankha

a tankha is a mirror
picture of the striving self
the Buddha you will be
or would

desiring to avert desire
brings on selves far other

pinch yourself – be here
be sunk
be these your depths
reflected

in the city
everyone can haggle
for tankha
the kind mechanically made
authentic peasantry’s devotion
authentic bourgeois decoration

the drum in your temple
beats against
time’s irrelevance

tankhas come with silky covers
so that the devotee
need not be frightened
by the mirror
she’s making