GIRL
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Egress alludes to emptiness. Widow with plump breasts
Reborn, my aunt of a past life.
Like a split road, you like to deviate from what is taught.
My root lama heeds good appearances. His lesson is to appreciate
and let go.
When he sees that female figure his mind composes:
Pear-like eyes whisper moderation, raised cheeks share warmth
Crooked lips warn of impermanence
This first impression more than your intimacy with her.
When you’re with a girl, self-respect pushes you to pause.
A neutral sigh might evoke a good feeling. Like a library
fostering study in students. But for what? I read in my room just fine.
For words for words. If it were not for words then what would what be?
At sun rise, healthy girls commence. Out in the open they transmogrify.
Is it not odd when they languish? They who had
liberation in the recesses of their youth?
The point I am making has yet to be made. I who relate to my root lama.
I one of the young girls
(Clinging to verses for safety. For)
Content(ment).
Palmo
Kesang Dolma at twenty eight
Cow dung permeating her slapdash house. Overfed baby wrestling at her breast
Beggar near she quenches with coins
Gesturing to the field north of her carefuly-brewed tea
No one knows what it means when her hand rises up, then tilts down in that direction
Crops that live as a fruit of love (I can count them on my two hands).
Asparagus-toned shrub and two clean kardals
When optimistic enough, there are times when she asks whenor if
Times like this are rare
