we do not
touch
be
fore
an
orange robe monk
wrapped
so one sun-
loved
shoulder
exposed itself
swept
into piles
on the
cool
white
tile
of the
wat
:
the company
ten temple cats
i
into
daphne pulp
an impossible letter
from the
pure
white
coconut milk
begging
my bones
the shrine
is a memory,
a palace,
the farmer’s jewel.
and the gold
buddha
stares back:
i
am
the true story
i
am
going
no where
but arrive-
ing
;
the boat crosses the river. we stop when
we are thirsty
and bike haphazard through
mangrove
who
yearns back
to
itself.