Between the suchness
And thrustness of
Any given minute
It matters not in the least
Whether a blow
Be administered by
Manjusri's sword
Or a falling valise
A passenger in transit
Waiting in the cold after
The day's long slushy rain
When the bus pulls up
And the driver explains there's
A plethora of dreaded black ice
In the vicinity
And still you answer
The summons by
Climbing on board
That you are coming
Or going is one
And the same
Whether victimhood
Or enlightenment awaits
Is not but a hair's breadth
Of difference
Even if your seatbelt
Is tightly fastened when it
Comes to a jolt like that
Administered directly
To the head
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