Identifying Mark

As the pupil of Ensō,
The eye goes to nothing much,

Vertical serpent down wells
Of zen’s etymologies

Back to the Mandarin,
Back to the Vedic Sanskrit,

Down to where roots look to see
What spring water’s here for them

To draw up to their branches,
Up past many human graves,

Tokens of eternities
Long since disintegrated,

Up past the marks on their trunk,
Inky black trunk in the night,

Up past portents and omens,
Past cracked bones and eclipses,

Up past the sign for all signs,
To scattered constellations,

And then falling back again
In the straight black rain of night,

Fresh pupils needling puddles,
Shining eyes for nothing much.