top of page


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.

bottom of page