DUCKS

Gasoline smell on my hands, perfume

From the generator’s toothless mouth,

Opening swallow from the green hose,

Sweet odor from the actual world.

There’s an old Buddhist saying I think I read one time:

Before Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.

After Enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.

The ducks, who neither carry nor chop,

Understand this, as I never will,

Their little feet propelling them, under the water,

Serene and stabilized,

                                       from the far side of the pond

Back to the marsh grasses and cattails.

I watch them every night they’re there.

Serenitas. I watch them.

Acceptance of what supports you, acceptance of what’s

Above your body,

                                invisible carry and chop,

Dark understory of desire

Where we should live,

                              not in the thrashing, dusk-tipped branches—

Desire is anonymous,

Motoring hard, unswaying in the unseeable.