In the skull kept on the desk.

    In the spider-pod in the dust.

    Or nowhere. In milkmaids， in loaves，

    Or nowhere. And if Socrates leaves

    His house in the morning，

    When he returns in the evening

    He will find Socrates waiting

    On the doorstep. Buddha the stick

    You use to clear the path，

    And Buddha the dog-doo you flick

    Away with it， nowhere or in each

    Several thing you touch：

    The dollar bill， the button

    That works the television.

    Even in the joke， the three

    Words American men say

    After making love. Where‘s

    The remote？ In the tears

    In things， proximate， intimate.

    In the wired stem with root

    And leaf nowhere of this lamp：

    Brass base， aura of illumination，

    Enlightenment， shade of grief.

    Odor of the lamp， brazen.

    The mind waiting in the mind

    As in the first thing to hand.