Dazu
The surface pushes, pulls the
beauty from ourselves; we
create the enlightened from
what’s in us. Our cells rub
with the dust with the pity
of soft stone an etiolate ochre
once seen an inch below the
surface of sand on prone beaches.
The face is emotionless; expression
is provided by he or she who sees.
The carvings have never been
touched but by the maker; the
shaker of atoms the re-arranger of
shapes. We creep softly among them.
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