The belly feels the law of falling bodies.
Likewise the law of the excluded middle.
I’ve never been much more than half a Buddhist,
But I attest the airiness of metal,
The emptiness of all things shaped and solid.
Round-bellied Buddhas made of brass, or less,
The meditating ones that seem ensouled,
The teak ones with a hand raised, blessing loss—
I lift one off the shelf, and he’s a kite,
A helium balloon, a smoke ring floating
Away to prove the ruse of form is fleeting.
He wears his weight as softly as a cat.
His eyes are stops along a silenced flute.
Such ballast serves to ease me into flight.