CANTO 67 The old wool socks

 

The old wool socks.

The worn blanket where mice nested.

Raindrops keeping odd time.

The watcher taken up in the sweep

of the second hand and the blackening of the third eye.

Keaton dangling by the analog minute

while the tent fills with digital midgets.

Deflated with every breath

the watcher takes notes

that change the character of the experience.

Don’t watch the watcher but the wash of breath.

Give the one watching the one giving advice the mantra.

the breath the wash of the light September rain

the prana lifts the lid

the jewel between the eyes of Buddha

and the soft cry of the nuthatch in the rain.

amid the singing wires of distractions

deepen the breath

so the back of your neck tingles and the goose-bumps

ripple down your thighs.

Now that you’re beyond advice, notice:

in the grace of the slow deep breath

awareness of your body as a whole

how it’s a little numb in the wash of the rain

or how it’s getting a little lighter

how the eye might be the gate

the eye or jewel or radiant mountain cloud

how when the breath embraces the watchers in the cloud

that brightens as it rises to the top of your body

that you sing maha ati

the nuthatch in the light rain

in the light September rain

so the back of your neck tingles

might be the gate

the eye or jewel or radiant mountain cloud

and the goose-bumps

ripple down your thighs

how when the breath embraces the watchers in the cloud

that brightens as it rises to the top of your body

as a whole

that you sing maha ati maha ati

maha ati nuthatch

nuthatch in the light rain

maha ati

radiant mountain cloud

awake in the wash of the rain

maha ati