The Red Flower
What one thinks to hold
Is what one thinks to know,
So comes of simple hope
And leads one on.
The others there the same
With no one then to blame
These flowered circles handed.
So each in turn was bonded.
There the yellow bees will buzz,
And eyes and ears appear
As listening, witnessing hearts
Of each who enters here.
Yet eyes were closed –
As if the inside world one chose
To live in only as one knows.
No thing comes otherwise.
Walk on, on crippled leg,
Because one stumped with cane,
Turned in and upside down
As with all else, bore useless weight.
The way from here is there
And back again, from birth to death,
From egg to echo, flesh to eyeless skull.
One only sleeps to breathe.
The hook, the heart, the body
Deep within its dress, the folds of feelings,
Face to face to face, no bandaged simple place.
No wonder more than this, none less.
From Francesco Clemente’s Tandoori Satori & Commonplace
(Waltham, MA: The Rose Art Museum/Brandeis University, 2004)