A vigilant monk is a fisher of thoughts.
He stares into his mind’s lagoon
To paw those fishies up as soon
As they flash silver or disturb the pond
With fins a-flicker when they crack
His dark with flirts of light. But day
He doesn’t need. Or meat. He’ll pray
Their mouths hide coins enough to pay
His master’s taxes. The poor? Tossed back.

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