Why Monks Are Fat

While the spirit swims
Circling the sublime absolute
And the essence explodes
Into pure consciousness
As if released from its tether —
As if. Yet,
At the other end of that tie-line
The belly howls and rails:
Feed me!
Ravenous, it growls:
You are still of the earth
And I will not let go.
And so
The monks file in from their meditation
Into the dining room.
They sit at long tables, trying to breathe slowly
Not to gobble.
It’s useless. Whatever food is set before them
Barley soup or coarse bread,
Baked vegetables, again!
As long as there’s enough
They will stuff
Until the belly fills and sighs:
You are mine again,
And I will hold my end down while you fly.