Moon in water,
the murderer’s leap
slices it in two.
Heartploughing this riddle on karma,
the one wanting to be a monk
looks to birdturns and
windspells for clues.
Winging a rat to its perch,
the hawk sits
unmoving.
Try as he might, the one eager to be a
monk, cannot stop the memory of
the gongs striking the hours
and half-hours in his home.
Karma washed away:
on the page,
rain drops.
It appeared to him that this would all
seem to be in dream, if the
punctuation did not demand
so much attention.