You blush in front of the cash register
in the split second you forget the numbers
corresponding to your phone
and store membership, so you can claim
the day's special on butter or eggs.
When you tell this story, you're consoled:
you don't really call your own
number. Why would you need to remember?
Who can say whether the soul wants to drift
closer to the heaven it's been taught to believe,
or back down into the river of undifferentiated
life? Flags flutter on the fringes of consciousness
like riddles whose colors signal to a previous life.
The word for jasmine is the same as its scent
is the same as its shadow strung around your neck.
When you are lost, you stay in one place until
something shimmers to signify the light has changed.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
