The incense smoke
rips and curls through the air
on its way to extermination--
it is filled with the spirit
of everything material.
Watching it waft up from its source
is like watching someone you love die
over and over again.
Just as suffering repeats itself, begins and ends,
the fiddles of smoke fade into nothingness
It is distressing to watch smoke vanish
when you relate it to your self,
a mirrored reflection.
The smoke can be bottled and captured,
but not for long.
like cold air escaping from a freezer,
it drips through the fingers like water;
like dirt in a glass of water,
it eludes the constraints of form.
The wind blows but one does not know
from whence it came.
But the smoke follows as commanded,
this way and that.
My head remains hardened in place,
but my eyes bounce back and forth,
following its trail
thinking each time it will remain.
In desperate attempt, I try to pinch the head
of a piece of smoke shaped like a dragon.
Like a worm, it splits in two--
twin serpents, wriggling away
on the way to the world