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.