Four Koans

For Gavin

The sound of a pen
moving does not
a poem make, although
that pen may still contain
a multitude.

Your soul remains
more ink to me
than man: something
fluid I try
to grasp, like hope.

When I am tired,
my language sharp,
the mantra which
my heart repeats
is very soft—

so listen close.
Put your ear
against the phone
and close your eyes:
the sounds of home.