Poetry

I believe in you, O tidal
mouth, where the salt
meets the stream.
 
I never had any God
to put the fish in desert to swim,
and someone can write a poem.
 
I am not different
beyond the unwritten
miracles. I cannot undo a cliché.
 
It is still my dharma ―
to listen to unheard cosmic
chants of blue birds.
 
And I reached the emptiness
of a vessel, which had
spilled over the milk of seeds.