New Orleans
All my friends live in houses facing graveyards
I don’t know why but it’s true
On warm December nights their backyard bonfires
burn the bones of spent desires
Their gifts of bourbon, warm cider and myrrh
eclipse the diamonds in their eyes
The presence of the pulse of misfired loves
sprout daughters of dandelion wine
Flares of heat, intoxicating smoke of
burnt mistletoe, holly, divinity
Empty bottles, misplaced beams, glinting
glances that undo me
What’s that there in your packed bags, ready for
the change to come, satori?
Tomorrow you’ll go back to the self he gave you
and I to my cold mountain.
Richard Collins is the abbot at the New Orleans Zen Temple and lives in Sewanee, Tennessee, where he directs Stone Nest Dojo. His recent work has appeared in Five Fleas, Syzygy Poetry Review, Amethyst Review, and The Braided Way. His book Stone Nest Poems is forthcoming from Shanti Arts.
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