Saturday, November 6, 2010

Selection #5

Selection #5

The Hungry Ghost Realm

On branches impaled they flutter in the wind

Above the dirt like prayer flags;

And in the open sewer she’s splashing in

They float serene and lotus-like: the bags,

The little, plastic bags that choke this slum.

But joy, through dusk, is pulsing on her who sits

Erect on the cracked cement, all still: some

Child bodhisattva ardor hits

To enter the world, the liquid world in light

That pours out from the shimmering TV set

To play upon her shining eyes. She'll fight

Monk-like this life to get there yet

Never will. Better if she awoke

To the earth the little plastic bags choke.

-- Dan D'Agostino

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