Every now and then
I engage no time
with words—that is, I
do nothing worthwhile
but make monk poems.
Poems in that vein
fiddle with riddling
mysteries of grace
and grit that arise
from everyday sounds . . .
humdrum sounds, humming
drumming to the beat
at the heart of things,
all the while all round
bending them into
shape. Seems worthless, yes?
And yet . . . my dad did
teach me the thing apt:
Pay a mind to it,
see if it feels right.
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