The Buddha’s Bellybutton

The light and shadow battling, feathers all
around, and some things flying, others stuck
in earth, which is decay that nurtures. Fall
so far away.

My dad the maker, struck
by genius, dumb. And I the arrogant,
one world above the vain. My finger in
the Buddha’s navel: lint. These words a shunt
between sensation and belief. No sin
to vex us.

Galaxies are breeding, bright
within our mouths, so kiss, kiss, kiss: we live.
I’ll never feel this good again, the night
inside me rich and strange, a cure I give
to seekers; that is, readers; that is, you.
Before you sicken, tell me what you’ll do.

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