pilot light

there's always the question of:
how to get from sweaty, grimy
fidgety, nail picking
to that shiny-headed, blissed-out monk
on the cover of "dharma magazine"

do i emerge overnight, as a butterfly does
from the cocoon? or is it slow and subtle
and if so, do i get to see the progress? is it linear,
or is it like time? can i see it in a mirror?
can others see it? do they see it before me
or must i bear first witness?

five minutes on the cushion probably
will always feel like eternity
oldness, newness, pain, quiet, all
scrabbling around in the sand
like children who still use the word
"forever"

i think the thing that changes must not be
how long i can sit
or what my body does or says, or even
how any of it makes me feel
i think the thing that changes must be
how comfortable i am with eternity
and how comfortable
i am with me.

cerrada

la puerta estaba cerrada
y vos, como si supieras
exactamente donde estaba yo
dijiste: "si no abras la puerta,
me voy."

y fue simple - no abrí la puerta
y vos te fuiste
y la puerta seguía cerrada

ahora, en el campo, el aire es libre
pero todavía mis pensamientos son
invadidos por apariciones de puertas cerradas
bocas cerradas
toda cerrada
y me han perdido las llaves.