Until there is nothing left but the smallest of hands

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

In the theater of distance
an impalpable curtain drawn
2 silent possibilities 
2 different bodies in one circle of breath.
Cast aside these books, these inhuman poems.

Let's not focus on sea caves,
or dragons, or mermaids, or ghosts,
or on a morning torn
by its sunlight and air.
Everything there, soon will be missed.
No penny will drop
into the chasms of accidents and genetic codes.
Let oblivion forsake
these eyes, these tongues,
and ruminations of sands, and invisible songs

that dictate to themselves 
against the sins, the deniers of Zen,
so no mind need measure monuments, so no heart may cling
to coincidence, until there is nothing left

but the smallest of hands.