And the merkabah on the barista's face
Are just more candy corn crumbs
Of a larger insistence
That I am, after all, not wrong
About things, the way I see them.
It's only me on this blue chair
in the horse grass
Musing what catches up to my gaze,
What wheel-turning dharma kings
Offer me Serbian plums.
No let up for star seeds.
The tiny horse ethos crystalizes
All that is into what I can
Reach, something plausive
You are free to finally ignore.
