Chinese Zen Poem 3

I want to see the light: even an oak tree glowing fire-orange in the middle of some useless forest of ugly, grub-covered stumps.

We didn't come this far just to be burnt toast---the victims of our booze and pills.

We have broken our survival down to its brass tacks, all in a cozy hymn: "Lord, come and save us from ourselves. Bring us to our Buddha-senses."

Meanwhile, my mother chops up her fingers to feed her dogs because her love is fucking boundless.

The snow on the handrail's so soft,

it doesn't know it's ashes.

civil war---

on our shortwave radio

we listen to the wind