Each day a new
old thing is peeled away
with a desiccant smile.
Zen, I’m told, is
the photons drying
the molecules to memory.
Tell the truth,
it’s stuff like this
that makes me take the elevator
instead of the stairs,
and stop at every floor.
Anyone here going up?
I ask, peering out into
darkening passages.
Fact is, somewhere up there,
I know not where,
the car will start
to come back down again.
C.B. Crenshaw 