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The walking sun.

My friends, on foot, have circled the globe. I know this because they told me

once at a party celebrating their coupling. That's the way they phrased it,

around the world together, a surcingle pair to girth two hemispheres. I like that,

their traveling, I go to all the slide shows with my side dish of garlic potatoes.

Everyone smiles and drinks the wine that has come up from the cellar, pressed,

stamped and bottled in the family, clean feet or so we are told as we sip a nouveau beaujolais

and watch the clouds of Tibet swirl across the screen, prayer walls and flags of multi-colored dreams

that keep coming true each harvest. You see, they are seekers and find a place each year

they have never been, and walk there, amongst clouds and yokes of leather-bound oxen,

finding themselves, an answer to their wandering, or arts at least, a dorje to lead them on.

I am glad they go, for questions, like Marco Polo's sojourns are hot and cold, and I am poor

and can only afford potatoes, garlic, and olive oil pressed by locals.

My friends, on foot, ahead thirty yards in the snow have asked me to this ridge

to light the Chinese New Year in a flag of sage thrown up in the wind. A fire burned once

every twelve years, "it will be beautiful," they say. I notice that the sun

is almost setting, a deus ex machina I think, down to warm our lives and help the crops.

But no, that's much too simple, bloated in its metaphoric reach. The sun is never beautiful

or a god or burning sage. Just setting, like a sun, a gash of hydrogen walking anywhere hot and cold.
COPYRIGHT 1992 University of Chicago
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Author:Cooperman, Matthew
Publication:Chicago Review
Date:Jan 1, 1992
Words:291
Previous Article:Without a sequel.
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