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Dogen straightens his back to open
a space in his chest. First breath slides
down, down, down
along the muscle fold that divides
his navel, where his mind
sinks, rooting firmly like the wide
straight-trunked ginkgo trees; fine
light stipples the leaves
marking the warm stripe of time
as sun clutches an arm from the shade,
breathe, breathe; the pulse in his neck
beats like the sparrow’s wing –
black bead of its eye – enquiring.
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