A Dream is a Mandala

Drawn Down by the Soul

Recalling a dream

as if it were

a hit & run, 

I’m unable

to identify

the driver 

behind 

the wheel;

whether 

it’s me

or not.

Every night

I explore

another 

mandala

knowing

the soul

is made

entirely 

out of

it's own

attentiveness.

I begin

by leaving

my self portrait

out on

the street

in the dark,

watching as

passersby

mistake me

for us both.

Last night

I watched

as a tornado

whose circular 

funnel

can cause only

abstraction

further obliterate

my logic

like so much

scattered

bric a brac.

Now it will take

an art

to call out to

others 

without appearing

desperate.

Yet

I go on

searching for

the center,

unsure whether

it lie in 

the mind,

the heart, 

or even

the hands,

let alone

one's liver.

08/18/21