Day of Fasting

On thin side of fat moon
             we hunker for morning, when
             sugar cubes will clatter teeth.

But that's tomorrow, not now.

Now is reedy insect counting new stars
             my neck crooked forward and
             aching knees hunching mound of bed covers.

Now is a thin wind in my mouth,
             a patient pulse
             a wetness of saliva
             unplanned words that sliced open Tara's vow.

Vagrant thought flutter
             like airborne termites
             speckling dusk beneath
             Good Friday's pink moon of April.

             (I found one dying by the stupa
              this morning
              four wings still rattling
              as it kept trying to clean its right antenna.)

Now Tara kindly works these knees,
             which surely preclude Nirvana,
             wrecking my posture,
             so I can't sit like a Buddha

             only perch like a
                                           stilted caucasian.