Buddha in a bomb shelter

let go the razor-blade
the tangle of red
the broad field
slicked with blood
filled with bodies, limbs playing Twister

hold on to the heart
the part about love...
correlations...
breath and death
-- sister nations

bodies in bags in
crates and plates
in heads of dead run round
and pierced through
with largely ignored truths

but from the seat of the heart,
you witness
all this passing --
this ghastly miraculous fraction
of Universe you see as your Self
your limbs, your torso, your glasses
playing in front of you like a puppet’s;

gaudy day-glo version of your dream Self
more real than dream, only perhaps, because this version picks up
where it left off the day before –
each and every day

and while you are no larger than any other dream
you are no smaller than any other dream
no more important, no less
for we are all connected
by the light that drowns us all,
fish swimming in light, longing in light
colliding in light, killing in light
righting in light – placing broken bodies back together
shooting them through with souls retrieved from
a madman’s medicine shelf
and, from a moment of passion, reborn