of the water heater settling
after a morning of introspection
on the white side of cedar leaves.
I never blink when I want to become.
There is no noise to emulate
when you sit in a still puddle
and wait for a lotus to sprout from the top
of your head. If I stay where I am,
I am at the end of a destination.
It would be desert without shrubs
or sand: motion of leaving
and returning to the time when my name
was about to be spoken by my mother –
her existence wanting nothing but an utterance.