That flush of red that’s splashed across the Thames—
viewed from the bus while crossing Tower Bridge—
will never, ever meet my sight again

the way it meets me now; one couldn’t stage
these many factors to converge like this,
so all that’s left’s to sit and acknowledge

the sumptious vision that I would have missed
if I had kept my head down while reading
the latest scoops from neuroscientists.

I hear that in Japan, businessman drink
for hours beneath a tree that flowers at night,
whose petals all die out by morning.

I wish I had a dram to pass about
to fellow passengers that steal a glance
before this blazing moment fizzles out

and we are no longer the chosen ones.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 21, 2012 @ 00:23:08

    Is this a satori moment?
    The poem describes the moment to perfection.


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