Sometimes, a dream fills his skull
like a strong wind
so the roof lifts from the library
and the stars throw down
their points into the room.
Not yet, the mind in the skull
—
keeps saying. No—
dropped incense stick,
cigarette or falling match, the library
filling now with ember, flame.
What will I do with the past?
the mind asks from its skull,
—
but the past has burned away
and only the vessel remains--
the skull
like an antique pot
in which someone placed a scroll
to bury in the earth.