from The 300 Missing Poems of Han-shan
There are countless wizards wandering through
our bloodstreams right now, following
the stars' bidding, the pilgrimage
of blood, performing
the miracle of oxygen.
In a feat of magic beyond compare,
each one of us inhales and exhales
with nothing up our sleeves.
Everything conjures itself into
this breathing spell,
and all is changed
in the blink of a wink
by every aspiration.
Life poured some breath
into our lungs, just
the right amount.
Is it any wonder our blood
applauds this trick of oxygen?
We need petition no magician
to make us real, nor jump through hoops
for appreciative audience regard.
We're always awake where
the sorcery ends, here within
our breathless chest,