What are you selling? Nothing. Poetry?
Imagine a shaved monk, begging bowl
in cupped hands, offering up
like a gift, a free gift. Nothing, clear
as water, settling till it holds your face
and the faces that crowd in behind you
almost steady, or shivered minutely
by a heartbeat, someone’s. Let it settle
deeper, till you see right through
to dented clay like the face of the moon,
and dust specks lifting, turning, as caught up
in their own world as me or you.