Without a single thought of Kubla

Khan or the sound, illustrious Buddha,

I’ve sat at the edge of many rivers.

Some, I cannot recall without an

Insect buzz, a stinging ant.

Some, I cannot recall without

A longing that blurs

With the ease of eyes

Falling blind.

In others still, I cannot recall myself –

I grow wild in observation

Struck by the spirit,

Kindling of a soul

Dried up,

And lit.