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Questions for the Soul

ISSUE:  Winter 2004

Where will you go,
little vagabond,
anonymous familiar,
my hardly mine
there is no mine
     What will you do

there on that
blindingly bright
or pitch black
stripped naked, witless,

down to the un-
ironic spark
of what within me
wouldn’t get
what’s funny when
the Buddhist monk
     who orders

a hot dog says,
Hey, buddy, could
you make me one
with everything?
Even thin smoke—

a moment over
burning leaves—
as it disperses
bears in its vague
and vaguer
     curls and rings

the curled or crumbling
leaf shapes that
released it, as if
remembering them,
or trying to—

but you, my restless
tramp, my rude,
ungrateful houseguest,
as you drift away
unfettered, wakeless,

as snow in snow,
will you bear any
trace at all
of who it was
who let you go?


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