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.