As a final touch,
before the painting caught fire,
he daubed black crosses
against a cherry-red sky:
aeroplanes in formation
fled from ground zero.
Leaves turned brown; took flight
behind flocks of failed phoenix
that blazed, but were not
re-born: scattered by the breath
of the Dragons from the West,
the shout of Ma Tzu.
He is thrown from the window of a two-storey house
when all he asks is on what he should meditate.
The master jumps after him, lands on his chest and yells,
“Got it?” And he answers, “Yes,” for if he dares to say,
“No,” he fears further beatings – but is enlightened:
since it is so sudden, he could never have conceived it.
His silk robe smouldered,
so he leapt into the lake
and floated silent
beneath lily pads: ripples
formed hexagram thirty-eight,
sunset on water.
He emerged half broiled
in steam, as white flakes drifted -
too late for blossom -
too early for snow: a fall
of ash from Nagasaki,
shunyata attained.
