ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF JAMES WRIGHT'S DEATH
On the night stand, a postcard of Maui
from John Logan who wrote of Merwin's place—
how the angle of ceiling to sea cliff
affects the colors of sky and cloud
like pulverized shells of robin's eggs.
What I remember of that beach was not
the twinned hands of sea and sky or robin's eggs,
but the bright multiple wounds of tiny flowers
and cardinals against the shadowed depths of jungle.
On the anniversary of James Wright's death,
he said they burned incense in the dojo,
Buddha's belly glowed red,
& the geckos; careless parents—
left their eggs on the lanai, in the kitchen,
on the ceiling of the zendo, where I swept them up—
on the ceiling of the zendo, where I swept them up—
imperfect eyes of the sun.
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