Bodhisattva Ordination on Camp St.

Sunday at the Zen Templeis sweet and form-bound and mystic in itscomplete non-mysticness,church bells making a pinball racket againstthe tropical greens and oranges of the paintings,the space silver of the eyes of ensos.Red wine collects in glasses, in mouthslike cistern water or inlets of tanninin the land of Mark West.Ten hours earlier, I swallowed an orange tabletwith a tiger’s faceand spent an epoch stroking the crest ofmy cat Hiba’s head like she was a statue ofsome fish-eyed deity.They’re playing John Lennon at the piano,the singer’s hair red gold,her father’s the same,their voices twisted together: velvet-hollow vines.Out the back window, high risesthen the mud curves of the Mississippi.I can hear the wind and today I can see it, too.China blue.My friend Rose is there and I fall in lovewith the halo of her hair,the skylight making shapes of crescents and arrowheadson the black twist of her kesa.