reading late at night
i set aside my copy of laozi’s dào dé jīng,
as if i have tossed away the auspicious and regrettable
outcomes in lifeto meet face to face within this room.
so distant from when the buddha held up a flower quietly
and mahākāśyapa smiled back in silent understanding,
there’s the fish and the water they swim in,
the cat that doesn’t catch fish,
then i recall the small rat that strode across the rug last new year’s eve,
the night peddler’s hawking has also become the universe’s language,
then i remember another line of poetry by a youth
the fish is actually the water in full bloom.
the lantern light seems to have written a poem;
they feel lonesome since i won’t read them.
i say with a grin, i revere your brightness.
my lantern then replies, listen
the night watch is striking a bamboo cylinder to mark time.
