https://www.buddhistpoetryreview.org/archive/issue-eight/merridawn-duckler

First the moon hangs huge flag on the horizon.
Then is a small, milky lozenge in the eastern sky.

The rain under the street light falls orange, like dying pine needles.

The street in snow, muffled.
Private steps on the light fall, over loose footing.

One time: a field of lavender.
Another, water under the boat doubled over, black as film strip.

Daily, the light forms a crust, arising from no central place.

I learned from my teacher
How no day is connected to any other day

At night, my right hand is empty, in what’s left lays the string and can.