Dry garden. Stone and thought. And sky and quietness.
Beyond the wall a tree that twists its gnarly trunk.
In me there's no beyond. And all thinks and all weighs.
A point where certainty may reconcile with luck,
Where colour vanishes and fades into absence
Where speech unites with void which abolishes it.
I am aware of naught but a benzoin scent.
Down to the depths of dream just a murmur that drifts.