three

though the folding of my hands
enacts the emptiest of emotions,
even when my knees strike the floor
like contact pads of a defribrillator,
and in spite
of these routines
like machines
or hollow tin cans
dragging behind caravans of monks,

this seemingly hollow praying-posture
breaks through energy,
epoch, emotion, and epidermis--
immediately, syringe-like,
into eternity.

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who is this guy?