And the monk sat, like a cloud, at peace, the way you can
unfurl at a safe distance from people, speaking softly, the
way spring rain writes on leaves, about life and illusion and
the journey of souls that leaves us behind, the way a snake
trades one skin for another. I wanted to ask if I could shed
this skin you touched, memories etched on it like scars that
would never heal. I wanted to ask if I could be washed and
anointed in a sunshine unguent, the way a bride is bathed
before her wedding, healing turmeric running down her
face and neck, the way the old sky is made to masquerade
as a new one each morning. But I am just the moulted life
of a writhing soul, holding on for a flutter, the way a name
is carried in the fist of the wind, for a distance. A sunset drips
yellow, the way time passes, faster when nobody is watching.
THOUGHT PURGE 