The white stone pebbles
Have their natural place
A lake, a river, the waves of stone
Raked carefully so that they return
To their natural order
The raker treads carefully
Removing all signs of his presence
The sleeves moving so as to not rustle the air
Silence in all things
Egolessness
The black hole of never having been there.
He smoothes the white of the sheets
Fluffs the pillow
Covers her shoulder
Gazes down on her
Closes the door without a sound
Breathes the evening air
His emptiness diffusing into
the darkness of night.