Burble

Walking out of the subway with an aquarium head

Bodies rotate in and out of focus, a merry go round of jackets, hats and jewelry

I teeter under the weight with the wind, balance and dodge

Thru the ripples I cannot make out what danger

all the beings are running from

Samsara

The hungry ghost of seven generations is present

I am aware of the hot knife cut behind my ears, around my head to my chest,

cauterizing the veins.

The cry for satisfaction rings with the pressure of 1000 voices

I bow to it, awestruck, grimacing, for the evening.

When gravity releases and reduced to static, I can question it:

But in the meantime; how did I ever think it possible to push this away?