The incense holds its shape
long after it has burned away,
a cone of ashes in the bowl
until I flick it
with my finger tip,
maintaining the illusion of mass
as life does,
being only as I perceive it.

The avocado limbs
burning in the stove
stacked in a pyramind,
give way to ashes.

Ashes and ashes and ashes
about the place
At fifty I am still trying
to build a life
that has form
each waiting
for the enregy to come
to perceive the moment
of it arrival
to be attentive
to what it has to say
I rock it into life
sometimes I dance it
if I am in pain
I merely wait,
as I read somewhere to do

Form and matter
have always been elusive
to me,
the non-material is more real
perceptions which move
like the wind,
the way the cosmos
rides in on the wind,
the sudden appearance
of the divine
in the gesture of the cat’s paw,
what is born in the soundless

The window panes are reflected
in the television screen,
the photographs repeat
in the mirror,
as does the candle chandelier
across the room.

Echoes and echoes and echoes,
the winter wreath upon the door,
the tip of the potted pine
sticking into sight
the full branch of the
which grows in the front yard
boasting young cones

Echoes and ashes,
assembling and disseminating
in a continuous flow,
If I pay atention
and do not miss
the moment of arrival
I can perceive
our mind has a map,
an image of our bodily form
that allows it perception
of pain in particular places.
But pain that originates
from deeper within has no way
to feel where that is
and must pretend it is somewhere else
in order to perceive it.
My perception is incapable
of perceiving wholly where I am
at least to the extent
of its insistence upon that
as material form.

If I am patient and
pay attention to the moment
of arrival
I can perceive
I can ride
the realization of my life
like waves of sonar
energy singing
out to test the boundaries
of form

a continuous reverberation
holding it together
until I flick it
with my finger tip.