the coin clatters in the heart of the bowl.
held within folds of clothing
there are passing motor scooters, cars, pedestrians
breezing by on this warm humid evening
by the streetcurb
his stillness bathed in the colors of fluorescent signs
and the last remnants of sunlight
the night markets of Taipei just opening
and the temple, whatever temple,
nowhere to be seen
the young moonfaced patchrobed monk
actually moves
we look deeply into each others’ eyes
each with our hands raised in gassho.
--Glen Snyder
1 comment:
Glen, are you Gary's son?
Your poetry is just too damn much...
Thanks.
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