Past Buddha in a green waterfall making music from the falling drops. Spinning on a small rock, talking to a turtle. Red doves pecking at grains of sand on the little beach. That effortless river flowing backwards through stillness and fire. Gauze of the waterfall’s spray in the surrounding air, a song whose chorus fades…

And I saw a field of Buddhas and there you were, running fast up a hill, laughing. And I saw you laughing and my heart burst, like a small block of granite beneath a sculptor’s chisel, a million shards of myself flying through the air. And my heart burst and I saw us running down…

This one’s a secret, between us three. You, me and Buddha – our secret machine. A dim machine with four long limbs, two hearts and one desire. Explodes upon impact with water or fire. A new machine in time, its discernable hum. The clock that will not lock, an horizon’s tilt. A pink smoke machine,…