If I have it right
whatever this light is
burst from its bright mother
and is by my counting
near nine minutes old.
Mostly untroubled it
didn’t mind
its violent knocks—
the floor to the box,
then, sorry to say,
my left eye ate it.

Black ink on cardboard
chomps more—in my
eating and not-eating I
read an idea—
not even a good one.
CANS & BOTTLES
Its author once altered
a corrective intended for refuse
and now offers refuge
for folders of mothers on pages:
Maha Prajna Paramita.

Sound waves of wave-sound
pass ‘round the zendo—
I try not to see, or
not-try to un-see,
this grateful dumb box of
not-cans and once-bottles.
Perhaps just to practice
with eyes as if only
near nine minutes old,
eating the essence
of the hum of the world.