Koan
What are the contents of a statue’s mind?
A cardinal picks at dry cow shit
in a pasture bordering the monastery.
Blue-veined mushrooms
poke out of the dung like periscopes
from the underworld. I’m told
I’m better off without my thoughts,
but what’s a mind without them?
No ideas but in things, the cardinal chirps,
nibbling at a cap of psilocybin.
Dharma bird, I want reality as much as you
but can’t afford to give up my illusions—
half-hidden in the winter grass,
two stone Buddhas
contemplate beneath a powerline.
