by Elizabeth Spires
Master
Under the
plum moon, he sits
like a frog
on a lily pad,
waiting,
waiting for what?
Pupil
I, too, am
illuminated
by the moon,
enraptured
by the
frog’s Thrum! Thrum!
My heart
beats loudly
like a big
bass drum.
Master/Pupil
He asks with
a smile,
“What shall
you seek, seeker?” And I, the fool, answer,
“The stars!
The plum moon! Love!”
Pupil
July,
August, September . . .
Desire
follows desire
these hot
sleepless nights
of late
summer.
Master
In the
mirror: ego.
The I-maker
looks out,
liking,
disliking, what it sees.
Pupil
Great
minimalist,
there are
too many words!
How shall I
choose among them?
Master
Paring the
apple, he eats
it slowly,
bit by bit.
Down to the
nothing of it . . .
From The New Criterion,
January 1990.