The poet, a Zen priest,
affably warns that his nineteen-foot
accordion-fold poem—
an apparent query into how
we know
anything for sure—
has never been read
to an audience in its entirety.
Forty minutes later
he pauses to ask how we’re doing,
acknowledges tiring and skips ahead.

I leave the bookstore,
not knowing what
to make of this performance.

Walking toward a bus stop,
I cross a side
lane, where a driver waits to enter
North 45th Street. Thinking he sees me,
I step in front
as he accelerates.
I leap onto his car hood,
screaming. He brakes, and I land
safely on my feet.
He speeds away.

I have just the strength
of the utility pole I lean against,
my breath,
and the cool night
air.

(No. 94 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Han-shan puts it, “Only when the mind is free of care/can the light of understanding shine/in every corner.”

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)