Degrees of Enlightenment
We know the words. We know all flesh is grass.
We’re handfuls of dust, breathing in dust. Our small
numbers are divinities of dust and grass.
There’s nothing better than dust and the fresh grass
on which you lie --- I feel the small of your back
smooth under my hand, the field of grass
rolling away. Here is the image of grass.
The image of time lies somewhere in the field
where people are running beyond our visual field.
They are, like us, a movement in the grass.
They are familiar names that no one knows.
They are moments everybody knows.
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