born poor and giving the rest as alms
amongst white clouds.
Known to clerks
by my synecdoche
Ham Sandwich.
I mumble, to and fro.
Ride the bus to and from work
like white rapids.
No good apartment view
but its a cave, no less.
I have knives and memories.
Gory lines and Gorrie Line.
Sawing bread, Mark cut
clean through his nail, into his flesh.
Awesome, I said. He smiled
knowing I approved his wound:
Its wide, red crescent
a moon in August
on cool, cloud-less night.
I give little on a Tuesday morning
but I pretend to be a poet from the T'ang.
In this way I order the dirt on the floor,
the leaves on the ground,
the Tao in my heart.
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