Peter Cashorali
Buddha
Half an hour before sunrise,
Venus and the moon a few feet overhead.
Even this close I’ll never reach anything that good,
Not just a poem but this life,
Moment with a client,
Moment with my husband.
The moon’s lit from beneath, translucent parchment,
Venus silver with delicate spikes.
That’s Leo rising behind them,
About to be caught by dawn.
The problem with poetry
Is that you remember it
When you’re trying to write it.
They say kill the Buddha
But don’t warn how convincing he is,
That when he says Venus and the crescent moon,
Well, you forget what it was.