we missed the opening band because we went west when we should have went east

the pigeon had a flare
of errant feathers
on its head,
making it look like
a punk rocker.

we took a video
with our phones and
laughed as it walked
quickly about
the city street.

the city street
wet in the night,
smeared in the street light,
though there hadn’t been any
rain.

we didn’t think
at all about
why
the pigeon had its
head feathers so
askew.
didn’t think to pay
attention to its
injury.

we just laughed
and watched it walk
quickly and
in circles and
in the city street.

it can be hard to see
out from inside
these vessels.
all this light
and sound and
substance
comes pouring in.
even while we sleep,
the mind walks itself
in circles,
wet and smeared
in light.

for some of us,
it can be difficult
to not allow our
terror
turn us to
contempt.
to contemptible.

we felt morose
later in that same night,
hours after having
forgotten
about the pigeon.
it’s common to feel
let down
at the ending
of a night,
we thought.
not thinking
at all.

bless-ed
are those who do not
think,
though are never
thoughtless.
swept free of dust
are those who are
in their vessel,
but are not
buried inside.

tiny pine cones form on a Winter plant

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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