He will be born from the belly of a fine arts magazine
On a black page
The womb a red square
On the black page
The Buddha inside the red womb
Carrying a white umbrella
When he steps from the page
He will walk upright
Talking to mules and clouds
Smelling ants and beetles
Eating iris and geranium
Smiling constantly and puzzled
By the journey of his life
He will walk on roads of burning rock
He will lay with a goat
He will worship a tree
He will disown God
Buddha will remember nothing, finally
As he sits for forty days
Like John the Baptist in the wilderness
He will need the forty days to hear
The steady sigh of the universe
The rise and fall of its heart
The will need the forty days to watch
The coming and going of the sun
And of the moon
The push and pull of the tides
And of his own blood
To know the loathing of self
The admiration of self
The damnation of love
And the freedom of death
Buddha will be all this:
In the dead of winter
Wolf stalking doe
Immobile
Quivering
Waiting.