It's zen-like

It’s zen-like when I sneeze

or when I tie my shoe,

or brush my teeth

or simply laugh a certain way. . .

Whatever I have done ten thousand times --

like the scar on my eyebrow

that tells me I am me --

brands the space I occupy,

signifies that I have been here

as long as, say, that tree. . .

or like this gold earring

that I have worn since ‘92

that has become a part of my sum-total

minus all that might unglue,

keeps me married to myself. . .

Or the way I whistle all the time. . .

But this new way,

these untested qualities,

these dreams that reify and fade --

will they be remembered

if I live to be a hundred,

too old, perhaps, to tie my shoe?

Will I remember this snag,

this anxious station,

this time when all the koans were new?

How should I describe this

world that lacks a name,

this story whose author

keeps nodding

and every time he falls asleep

all the known rivers

swell their banks,

slough off their names,

murmuring of unexplored headwaters. . .