Adding to Buddha

The fluidity of breasts and gentle fat
that rounds the buttocks, belly,
and the mound from which wet fire erupts,
conceal a mind.

I sit beneath a shrub
at ease, reclined,
and think on that which flows.

The subtle cat,
uncoiling its body, stretches.
It claws, exposed,
are narrow and sharp as good prose.

The sunlight flat,
so that colors of evening are bleeding:
the gold as of saffron robes
to grape-stained mats
made red
by the spillage of wine.

I think of women in labor,
their bodies torn,
and wonder
what words are appropriate.
The horizon burns.

Now I’m sitting in on a rock after dark,
my stomach warm
and smooth as of bread dough rising.
It reflects the tides
displaced by a rising moon
and the sun's capsizing.

I find I am happiest at night
on this seat I’ve worn
with many and many a sitting.

Every star has thorns.
Everything in the desert is prickly,
but the breeze is light
and suggestive
as tag ends of gossip.

I sip warm beer.
The sky is clear
and dry
as a mummy's wrapping.

I stand up and unbutton my clothes.
I salute saguaros;
then, stepping out of my sandals,
permit my toes
to burrow in the desert dust.

I experience lust,
am surprised by an earthquake of laughter.
I realize for the first time
my luck.
My body is all that I have
and where trust begins.