You walk by the lake up the mountain
The monks long gone, the monastery
In ruins, the land wet, the rice deep
The laughter of your childhood the scatter
Of crows. The dust on your feet is thick,
Cakes in the sun, your eyes dark as a pool
Your hair in the wind, the salt on your lips.
You always go quiet when your pulse is up
Your words coming and going, fading in and out
Where below your family comes and goes
The trees bending, the unsaid prayers
Stacking up, pagodas under a sharp, blue sky
And in the distance small figures cluster
As if vihara in the rock cliffs, and beyond
Your shoulders a mirage of stupa
And our eyes, tongues, fingers, feet
Seem to pass, the one the other,
And what we say and taste is and is not.