At the foot of my bed hangs
a painting of a bald monk,
bearded and heavily robed.
The monk does not move yet moves
me to notice the fat staff
resting on his right shoulder,
steadied by his right-hand grasp.
The still monk holds the staff still,
disturbing nothing at all
yet knowing its good use as
a weapon, were need to rise.
The monk directs his gaze as
two dragonflies swim mid-air
surrounding the staff’s forward,
one above, other beneath.
Now mirrored in the framed glass
of the sumi-e painting:
the bare face, a bare poet.
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