Sunday, November 3, 2019


None of my hunches were right in the end.
Stonehouse died several centuries ago.

The flat-topped rock on which he watched the moon
And composed singable poems about rocks

And cloudless nights while thinking Buddhist thoughts
Is still sitting there, being a rock, just

“Up the slope from the water-bottling plant.
Local farmers call it ‘chess-playing rock.’”

What does this tell us about poetry
And wisdom and sutras and strategies

For getting through another moonlit night?
I never have been any good at chess.

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