A Monk Told Me

Zen practice

left a hole in my heart

that I try to keep empty.

Insight

I sit at the table reading a book of Harrison's poems. The air-conditioning switches on and begins to hum and whirl. It is on because my son is home for a visit, and his blood runs hot. He lives now in Montreal where it is typically cooler, a balm to his internal heat. The people there speak French, lips pursed as if blowing on invisible bowls of soup.

I think I finally understand poetry.