I'm surrounded by a jigsaw of shapes:
orange roofs with scale-like tiles, stone icing
encasing windows, Mount Meru corncobs, trees,
birds perched on nagas, and a temple - its
walls bereft of color -- fronted by bone-like
scaffolds. Birdsong carries on incense air.
No need to go inside to meditate. Above
temple roofs, sky teases stone with its
mint infinity. I see what's there, not there.
My mouth stays open, awesome, this world
center, no language. Birds and dragons are
the first poets. The monks continue the big
bang chant of the universe. It goes on and
on; I close my eyes, to drift, to hear, not-hear.
Sounds like they're saving the planet, if only
they can. Hour passes. I open my eyes, the
monks are gone, damn twilight. An old couple
--witch brooms in hand--point to the exit.