The rock shelf doesn’t hold the sea
In place, thought the monk, rather say,
Water will accept a boundary
Because that is the given way.
He has learned little all these years;
How to eat, walk, but not to think,
But in the vanquishing of fears —
Little stones thrown in the sea sink.
He fears most the fog’s unwinding,
Like cloth from a bolt, the blinding,
When the sun’s lost sight of his eyes.
Then there's no telling fog from self.
He’s moveless till the wind rises.
A step might send him off the shelf.
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