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Supper at Plum Village

On every quarter strike of hour they stop,
smile at us, half admonish half atone;

between the chimes cook us sunshine omelets,
supervise the washing-up in seven

bowls of water. Earthly sisters,
the phlegm of rugged living gurgling in their lungs,

they seem like children, refrain from conversation,
their mission to please a Guest

we cannot see. We eat to the brattle of cutlery,
the ring of the singing bowl.