it is a well concealed pain
like blood is concealed by the body
kept close. internal
external, thrust forward by the need for
motion, aerodynamic
by nature. guts which spin
tangled ribbons twisting
like sheets in the washing machine
in the early morning
the start or close of ceremony
tall cold glittering glasses of tea
indiscernible meditation
heavy incense scented perfume on
skin, retreating,
one last look, my turn in the four chambers
come to close
eyes that do not weep
but close to see
it was not all bad. the good
still good, the body
still mine, the heart
still thumping loud into the space between
internal and external. blood and skin
sanctity and delusion. one loud prayer in june
spins all summer