before class, two years ago

i_s a t
a t__d u s k
u n d e r_ a
t
r
e
e
c_____o______n
t e m__p__l__a t______ i n g
r_________o________o______t____s:

could palm

ever be bodhi?

i did not notice: the sound of
the passersby, nor the smell of
passion fruit, nor the taste of
Duchamp from past summers' love.


(instead)

my:

the wind cross

face

the grass tween

toes

the poem inside

fingers.

an earlier version of this poem lives here.