One
Think of moving as a way of standing still.
Two
Think of standing still as a way of moving.

Note how the first exercise
causes you to concentrate on
yourself; the second on the world

…and when you think of yourself
moving as a mode of not moving
you will hear the world panting to
catch up with you while, at the same time,
you are racing to keep up with the world

which, while you are performing
the second exercise, becomes as
still as you are, and, not batting
an eye, stares at you like the dog
who has given up chasing his tail
and now awaits his necessary walk.

Three
Pretend you are an ancient Chinese poet in ancient China.
Four
Pretend you are an ancient Chinese poet 
when and where you are living now.

Note how the first exercise
causes you to become sensitive
to brooks and bamboo, one might
even say to love them; the second
to be jarred, displaced, forlorn

…and when you pretend the first time 
the world and your garden become one,
the transfiguration of the smallest cloud
more telling than a change of emperors

who, when all of them are gone,
their dusty dynasties preserved only 
in a few perfect porcelains, a flourish
of calligraphy, a map-like landscape, seem
not to have been such philistines after all.

Five
Imagine everyone has died but you.
Six
Imagine you have died while everyone else still lives.

Note how the first exercise makes
life feel oppressive, like a blight,
while the second bids life so dear
that you can think only of being alive

…and when you imagine yourself
alone—alive alone—what do you see
but ragged gray cities over which a
sour wind draws itself up like a shroud

which, in the second exercise, is over
you, and that’s how children picture
ghosts; so, you too grow a ghost and
moan with envy every Hallowe’en.