What started as ‘write a list poem’ and detoured into listless things, ended up with the observation that a list flows like a river. We always return to the river. And since then, List has flowed into Listen. Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus, The Spell of the Sensuous, even MIT’s ULab course have converged to enrich my presencing practice.
the milky moon has no rivers just dusty seas named in a dead language – perfect repositories for faint hopes and faceless fears but you, restless river, pull hard, clear and mean at my most cherished and extravagant retributions – leaving me knee deep washed clean, and watching you laughingly carry my swords to the sea
The milky moon and the flagpoles at Dorje Denma Ling retreat centre – my alternative image for the postcard poem in the reading room. The moon was yet to set and my most of fellow meditators were yet to rise.
the milky moon 
the restless river