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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.
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