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A Sand Mandala at Low Tide

Sakyamuni died
to the sound of a starving dog's
filibuster for the brittle music
of edible insect bones landing on
her naked breast damp with dinner's steam
static and intoxicating like a smile
or a morning spent making love
left in sweat on the dry riverbed between her breasts
where each refugee bead is caught and brought home
to a boiling sea of expired ambrosia
washing away arthropod instruments now
discarded send morse-code recipes through
linoleum to a dying dog on life support
its clockwork pulse the sound to which
Sakyamuni was reborn.