Zazen

By Pey Pey Oh

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.

© 2019 harana poetry

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