It’s about not-about. I’ll start again
And stop there—which is more like it.
The Via Negativa goes Nowhere
And that’s a lovely place—the empty lake

In front of the barren hotel where some timeless,
Karmic habitués look past one another.
Better five minutes of Zen than
A hundred books about Zen. Poems

Are another story. They too inhabit
No place gracefully, dwell
Offhandedly in mini-eternities.
They too welcome oblivion. Authorship’s
A ruse but that fades. Sit still again.
No nothing. You can feel it. Approximately.