“Now”

The Dalai Lama
shaves I imagine
as other men do
each morning.
Standing before
his mirror, he
sees the line of
lamas going back
to before mirrors.
When he shaves
he’s present only
to the blade as
it pulls or skates
across his skin—
cheek, upper lip,
chin—and to each
hair as it accepts
the fact. Shaving,
he only shaves,
unlike me reclining
in this tub, absent
to the razor in
my hand and to
the shin, lost in
thoughts of how
wise men live.