To look, on a fine Spring Day,
at what you are not
from what you are…
takes an assimilated separation
of “me” and “not me.”
But that looking isn’t “looking”…
it’s merely repeatedly hurling what was absorbed.
To really look, on a fine Spring Day,
at what’s real,
is to look without separation,
without the gobbled “known.”
And that means looking
without the ingested “me” or “I”…
for otherwise, it’s habitually regurgitating
what was consumed.