I am halted in my tracks
by the vacancy of its eye socket

The gift of flight
ought to have served it better
but nothing comes and goes
like bodies and dust

In terms of yoga
the ad hoc cemetery becomes
the mandala of the deity
whose likeness in all things
appears in the absence 
of our unwieldy projections

Now fingering beads on a mala
like counting bones at a dig
and nothing comes and goes
like tallied digits

sol wa dep


Photo (CC BY-SA) 2021. A decaying unidentified bird’s head.