One Zennish Adonic, Skin of a Bubble

Back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me,
blasting through its borehole in the firmament.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

I’m blast-proof now.  Rays can’t penetrate me.
I sleep like a stone, blind to all signs of impermanence,
though back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me.

Driving through the dark rain, headlights strafing me,
I was shell-shocked by traffic lights, volatile ornaments.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

Life’s safer on autopilot.  Nothing shakes me:
not midnight, not lightning, no transit through turbulence.
Yet back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me,

and one Zennish Adonic, skin of a bubble, could make me
perseverate for days on the earth’s impermanence.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

Now I get and spend.  Words don’t agitate me.
My skin is a hide, all my senses impervious,
though back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me:
I was so weightless then, a breeze could take me.