Breathing
We -- assuming the collective voice
as a reflex to dispel strange ghosts -- talk
as though sitting on the cushion
is anything other than breathing.
Seeking vacancy, the fertile space within
where a humid emptiness envelops all.
At some point the I becomes a me
contingent upon the reflective window.
It's all the same deep water, except
there is no water and the vacancy
we cultivate -- as though it can grow
and blossom -- is a simple silence.
So after many years, the me is now
an it, soft clay molded to reveal
all the little people who have claimed
my name, have hijacked this body
sitting vacant on a cushion, breathing.
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