As I sat for morning prayers a fly lay still
upon the windowsill, a little buddha,
hands folded reverently on his chest,
not careening frantically in mindless loops
like the executive chasing his millions,
or the TV buzzing in our heads,
not swatted and dodging, the constant refugee,
living off the crumbs from the master’s table,
like the tattered man under the bridge—
no, completely, in his death, himself,
and cleansed of all success or failure,
unjudged, and uninterpreted, and still.
In our piety we may receive him as an icon
or dispose of him, without his least concern.
How lightly he rests, his labors ended,
beckoning us to the perfect place where
he has always lived, where no one asks,
“Who do you think you are?
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