Sokushinbutsu

This morning on the 30,

rounding under the overpass

and up into the city,

I looked across Molentargius—

that stagnant flamingo brothel—

and saw winter Cagliari

in the morning mist.

Pink and blue and white,

falling apart into the sea

like a Braque.

 

And for the first time I was silent

and felt myself filling with empty space

and I was no longer a river

and when we reached the empty field

across from the Ikea

where the parrots live

I built a small stone cairn

and sealed myself inside

and began ringing my bell.

They wondered if he died

when the bell stopped ringing

but the bell never stopped ringing.

 

The parrots understood,

and made a house in my head.

Each generation sounds a faint 'tong tong'

with the sun cresting the Devil's Saddle,

and when the living show up in their

flip flops and parasols

and beg them for a eulogy,

they politely refuse to carry messages

from the dead.