do you see

moon

 do you see this

single solid block  

of hand-carved

timber—

whose palms wholly

embrace his face

whose face is wholly

bent into his knees? 

—he does not see

without.  He hollows,

ever unplumbed,

within. 

If prayer were perched

like this and attended,

how profound

a Buddha

would we be?

They said it would be

your largest night. 

Your clarity

would insist

 we increase. 

But from here,

looking up and out

was cloud, and the drying

remains of rain.

But the bottom

of my cup

is empty.

 moon—you are Buddha,

a reflexing light

going out and going in,

a sea pushed and pulled

on every letting

go.  You are this wood

  where at first I see

a fist,

then

  a bud aching

to break the winter

 stitch that kept its chin warm.

Looking more, you are

  palm-open hands

spread wide against

tight eyes.  And still

more: the fist unfurls,

and the shaved

head sinks to rise

from the firm root, bone–word

broken open against

this littered cove

of light.

Oh lotus!

 I watch you unfold

from the bald rocks hauled

out of the bottom

of every deep

we ever crave.

If you, Buddha

glimpsed me

inside the wet palms of your prayer

and pushed sweetly

out and poured

this prayer

out

could I lift

my head to you?

Would there be heat

enough between us

to thresh away the clouds

so we could, finally

rising,

drink

each

and one

fount to fount,

four hands

curled,  liquid night cool

on the lips we bend to?