Sutra
Today the fox in muffled morning light
appears near death himself. His rodent prey
hangs listless from his jaws. He notices
my eye but doesn’t skip a stolen beat
in his retreat through smoke that filters down
from Nova Scotia. He knows we’re near the end.
Which reminds me, we must kill our mentors
on the astral plane. Extract their many voices,
bury them with their eyes. Erase their judgement.
Nothing should remain of their indulgence.
Which reminds me of a clouded peak,
an aphorism written on the sun,
a wind that tells you what you know.
by Rick Mullin
Editor’s Note: This blank verse poem challenges the reader to ponder what is seen and what is felt, and asks how knowledge arises from these things, however difficult to accept.
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