The Buddha

In the verdant sarcophagus of night his pale, lifeless eyes unfocused in a clearing irradiated by a cold beam ---the sitting Buddha where he sits the forest dies the grass withers His pale light blinds me So I write in inky darkness But i cannot fathom him or embrace with my eyes his silhouette In the crucible of morning the sun rises like a flock of golden doves but i cannot embrace the racing arc of dawn Though through the viridian canopy ---shimmering coins