Another crackly flip top rolls along the edges
As the jelly begins to bounce
And the field mice scatter
Their home of rotten plywood
Where they lived harmoniously with centipedes
Is violently ripped away
And the little camouflage warriors
And tuxedo clad maestros
Attack each other with empty perceptions
The realities of their existence dug up
Obliterated by sutras
In a smudged glass display case
A number of pastries sit patiently
Waiting for their sweetness to be tasted
Or simply waste away
And Lama Zopa Rinpoche
Expounds on the emptiness of all the forms
And all their aggregates
As the perceiver looks into the pastry case
Watching the girl behind the counter
Place croissants in paper coffins
Offering her prayers to the sentient beings
And cleaning the glass shelves
With a wet green rag
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