Suddenly reduced.
Not a small fish
In a big pond,
but a goldfish
dropped
into an ocean.
I always counted my pain like coins,
bargaining with it,
weighing its worth.
Here, at a table of high rollers,
my currency looked counterfeit.
I shikantaza’d my mindstream,
pored across memory:
Was there some hidden trauma?
Some buried crime?
My ledger came up empty.
My suffering, I realize, has been elective.
And with that, I’ll pass.
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