Chinese Zen Poem 1
11 Haibun
The wind is forceful this morning: so much that I fear it will push me all the way through and out of any remaining enlightened dreams I may still remember.
The grass itself is crushed---all earthly mud, frozen.
There are crows here set aside for Hell; they stare me down and make me try to envy them for their meat scraps.
I am a skeleton trapped inside a man---who himself is turning to meat.
Neither sun nor moon care
about any of these things.
ghost supper . . .
an old native woman
thins her corn soup
