It is a ghost on a
string, paper skin or plastic
sewn onto the most brittle of bones
that perhaps were never born or have
already died.
The frail body dips and screams.
It cannot believe that it has been
surrendered
to an uncertain fate in an arena where it
is rumored
that angels conspire to synchronize the
affairs of men.
And yet, when its sails are in full furl,
it dances like a child who has finally
learned to walk
without the gravity of knowing, the
philosophy of when.
Or so it seems. There is a doubletake,
and one sees that it is a solitary prayer
that must be released to have any chance
of being found let alone returned with
interest.
It moves skyward, and yet beyond the sky,
into the depths of a larger beating heart
than that of swift rivers or rising seas.
It must find the eternal rhythms, the many
mantras,
that govern the expanding whole and the infinitesimal
part.
I saw it sail over a golden meadow and a
grove of trees,
its tail swinging like the rosary beads of
a noonday nun.
And then, before it disappeared, it was whipping
wild,
like a Buddhist prayer flag torn by
ecstasy,
its holy tongue-wagging just begun.
~William Hammett
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