At the Temple

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The temple has red lips.

I walk inside.

.

Light through bamboo.

Sour face of early lemons.

.

Holding incense

my naked feet try to pray.

.

The tea is bitter.

My tongue demands God.

.

I touch a doorknob.

The roused monk scats

the sniffing cat.

.

Yellow grass on the path.

Your hair disturbs my meditation.

.

Hours are a paper cup.

They leak.

.

Rain crests the hill.

Hear it

making love to crickets.

.

Old belly bells,

the winter,

fish and me.

.

Temple, old thumb,

turn these leaves

our lives.

.

Like prayer

these poems can summon –

what?

.

Old hat, rain,

I don’t feel your mouth.