final poem of Stirrup of the Sun & Moon

I was sitting beneath the damp night trees

listening to their squeaking branches

in the breeze

— what one wizard in the North

called ‘tree-rubbing-tree music’ —

and there

in a place no more special

and no less than any other

I felt a supernova

start to boil

under my ribs.

The Teachers

had carried me

as far as they could.

I might as well

have been standing

at the same Western Gate

the Old Man used

when he departed the province

on that ox.

The only teacher left:

the river of the Dao

in my own bloodstream.

(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen /

sound: Petrichor / Flora and Fauna / Roy Mattson