LOOK.
You can't see my face
Because I am walking
away.
I am a vagabond,
the beggar priest,
sixteenth in the line
of Buddha's Apostles.
LISTEN.
Let me talk to you.
I have no bed,
and yet have never lain
where I did not belong.
Be long, my friend.
Stay short.
Linger in memories.
but never remain
in a room,
on a shelf,
stuck
to collect dust.
Rather,
catch the dust between your toes
on a dirty road.
Find it
ground into the chaffing cloth
of your swinging robe.
Take your stick and lantern
and be a walking man.
Woo the streets to your feet.
Call them by pet names
that grow into the soles
of heels and toes,
that smooth the muscles
of your calves.
Have nothing.
Carry it close to your skin.
beneath the falling creases
of your clothes.
Keep every thing
inside your lungs
Inhale:
a small village,
a frame house,
a mother's spice and herb,
a child's fleshy foot on clay floors,
a loaf of steaming bread,
Breathe in until you must breathe out.
-Christin Wright
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