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          I realised
I am a peninsula
                     when I could see nothing
          but grey sea
unvolved to every horizon
                     except the rocky path I had trod behind me
          to stand
          where I am
                     no matter

          I sit and
          in every
          breaths I breathe out
and let settle
          a chip of stone
          a hair from root
          it doesn’t matter
and like the pin from the anvil*
          the gorge from the birdwing*
                     I will eventually drift tectonic
          whether I
separate from the mainland
          or not


* the time it takes to make a fine pin from an anvil using a soft blue ribbon; the time it takes to make a gorge from a mythical bird which returns to its nest once every hundred years, angles sharply to reach its nest, and in so doing brushes the side of the mountain that once was there with the tips of its wing … are Buddhist ways of saying ‘such a long time that you may as well not have any targets or hopes about the project, it will happen in its own sweet time by itself as long as you keep doing your part




breathing wormhole: I find / you find your bones / on the outbreath
grey wormhole: no hat
horizon wormhole: clouds
identity wormhole: 1963
letting go wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
path wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again
realisation wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
sea wormhole: 1963
sitting wormhole: my fidgety self
stone wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop