The celadon jar I bargain for is flawed
with a swirling puckered kiss from its maker.
A lotus spins in the corner of my eye.
The foot that wore the
sandal took another road.
For many lives, I walked with one foot unshod,
not remembering where the other sandal was lost.
Doesn't matter. Everyone's river empties into a sea.
Desire is the cause
they say. I desire to defy suffering.
The warriors of good
and evil dance past me
and wave as they go by. I recognize them all.
They dance to the end of the world, then jump.
The crash is inevitable.
Sand spins in the corner
of my eye
and scratches to get out. I collect a beach
in my palm so I can escape to the shore of long ago.
If I blow across the dunes of sleep, dreams will scatter
into the air. I am devoted to their illusion.
Each spoke of the wheel
has a name.
None of the names are mine.
I must not fill my empty
hand with another illusion, but I must.
I sing myself to sleep.
Jeanette Clough's poetry appears or is forthcoming
in Ohio Review, Denver Quarterly, Wisconsin Review, and Fine Madness.
Her book, Celestial Burn (Sacred Beverage Press 1999) received a
Pushcart Prize nomination.