On this day, 2019, Uncle John sent us, as
a family, another group
email—this movie of the falling
snow as seen from his window—at
least, the subject header is “Snow” and
the walls of his unlit apartment
are cast in a blueish
igloo light—
then the roving lens cuts suddenly
as if he’s hit “flip screen” by mistake, to
swerve for a further, full
dreamscape minute
across his topless midriff
his belly, long, full and pale,
across his gentle
man-breasts: dizzy whisks of flying
white as he pans smoothly, as he thinks, over
the scene outside.
At last, the lens catches his face from below
in an expression of wild,
calm wonderment—
a kind of solitary
elopement—
his mouth open in
a mild smile like a response
to the koan,
what is the
original countenance before
birth?