At the Temple


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 –



Old hat, rain,

I don’t feel your mouth.