as the accustomed ache
in his knees begins
before he bends
to pull with a slow
wet smuck a weed
from the mud and muck
he sees in epiphany
the whiteness of the weed’s
tiny flowers glow
a constellation
a constellation
beyond the damp moment’s
indignations
then recalls a poem’s
translation where Li Po
leans into the moon’s
casual reflection
along the still surface
of a shallow pond
and disappears
into something other
than who he was
before he lost
definition’s
ephemeral
control
(September 20, 2014)
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