PSIPOOK | poetry korner | fortuitous moons

Fortuitous Moons
Jerry Gordon

 

We become blank before
the halo of details
shining from every surface.
 
I wouldn't know what
I can't see.
 
My blindness defines
the scope and depth
of my vision;
how many friends have I
passed by for lack
of a meeting?
 
I sit here with you,
bathed in my fortuitous
moons, and refuse to
dream of your eventual
leaving through that door
you painted with 10,000
bodhisattvas
and lock wide open.
 
A man with a green cap
has a dragon on his apron;
it protects him
from the stains
of this world.
 
The knot is loose.
Each thread is fraying.

 

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