Fish paste and planes are temporal; I've found them in the
Satipatthāna Sutta: under Impermanence,
with expiration dates.
This refrain arises 13 different times in the sutra -
and now
contemplate the arising
the passing away
and both the arising and the passing away.
The sound of
the sutra is a passenger plane, drowsy,
(nearly empty, masked, full rows for each solitary)
nodding asleep,
crossing lakes, mountains, rivers, fens,
then ballenas, blind creeks, karst and kettles,
settling into descent, touching salt water.
It's there,
where Kastrup and Chek Lap Kok are building islands,
reclaiming strands - new Doggerlands.
Land arising doesn't last.
Nothing does, and not even that!
So don't pass, in either place, on fish paste.
It ought to be bought
duty free, in
Kastrup and Chek Lap Kok.
Then settle in, clock arrivals, departures.
Who here, there, will start a new life, flee?
The sutra seas are full of jellyfish, not whales.
Birds land on shale beaches to fish estuaries.
I eat fish paste and watch,
from a room with a sutra in Amager, looking north -
flatlands, flat skies, birches,
perches for cormorants and crows.
Chóu sāan's sutra is rising like a low star,
faraway, over books and buildings
and broken lives.
I've saved nothing but poems.
So many jellyfish!
Near Amager, sinks an old carcass of a whale,
stale stink when the wind blows right.
The fish paste I like comes in a tube,
squeezes out
star-shaped trails of roe.
I've no bread for it, or for the prisoners of
politics and ventilators.
Even Kastrup's caught it, that feeling of
intubation, where both the arising and the passing away take
sounds, slake
arising and passing away
into one distance, together.
