Bodhisattvas in empty earth
but never really—up past wormy holy
underworld—to mind without walls
innate in
empty eggshell
already hatched
and having nothing,
solar cumulus columnar, wordlessness,
immanence
of speechless symphonic grasses,
their aquaporins precisely
minute:
voidfabric, whole waterfall canyons
of watery veins
ambivalent of apical self-natures
or idea outside of valent electrons
pulsing the stillness of
froggy hollow waters, sky delicately wrapped
in the gaps of cells
and so vesicles veritably gloved suchly,
a voyagerless return—
the drunken idiotboat
with harpsichord of splinters
lapping tongues underneath the
other shore—
and salamander sidles up to frog
in the hills of unchanging
untreaded tadpole evolutions and asks:
“why did the dinosaurs come from
the pangea west?” and frog says:
“I will tell you”
and before frog can say a word
frog is eaten by swallowbird
and the eye of unfathomed essence
is consummated and
frog reappears—
and bodhisattva’s flowers are resplendored
and get stepped on by accident,
the sky still pervading everything,
clouds pointing at your own head
and the head of the knobby rhythmic
knees of herons with tapestries
of lulling pine-smell forest history
within them, forgotten and unrealized,
taped with words and
extinguished by extant is-ness
and its soft
unblown
breath
—Tom Jennings
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