"Too late for a doctor,” instructs the black-robed monk
& then we walk in a circle around the platforms.
 
We floor-gaze with hands in a mudra
to resolve all differences.
 
One Zen proverb says to enter the path, is to swallow
a red-hot iron ball – isn’t life the same?
 
For half a day we assemble silently in symmetry
on wooden platforms. No moving!
 
The only color here, says the newspaper,
is the splash of pink cloth on the altar.
 
I shovel smashed pumpkins over the embankment
during work period & throw up after breakfast.
 
The monk reads from the Rinzai-roku,
while the Zen stick goes unused.