The turtles go
out of their water
this time of year,

slow on roadways,
slow to mating
somewhere,

or slow to dates
with car tires.

No, there’s no
enlightenment–
there’s no one

there. (That’s
Buddhism 101
each day teaches.)

No, there’s no
virtue–
there’s no one

there. Only
being.

Lost in this
movement I rub
the cat’s head,

a black cat, a warm,
cloudy morning.

There’ no cat.
There’s no I. There’s

only purring,
this congeries
of movement

to movement–
to car tires,
to this ache

of loss
and fulfillment
in each instant.

There is
this flow
only to be

and savored.