Bell bird

Out in the clouds a riddle

waits for the sky to fold

                                          down

in the ground a worm

curls into dirt like a root.

—neither knows what each day

is going to sound like from the night

before

           twenty-five singers touch

their foreheads to the toes

of mountains on which small birds

beak insects from the air

                                        —it’s not

a world where Buddha sits

breaking tears on his immense lap

but one where he raises his bulk

onto tortured knees to see

                                         better

over tree-tops.

His singing bowl

sounds from the horizon

—a flute

           pipes in response 

                                   —Korimako

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