I shelter in the shade of your ruined wall.
I rest at the rim of the old canal.
Your crooked streets comfort me,
a maze surrounding sanctuary
and webbed with waterways. At every gate
a little shrine. Each public place,
an altar live with incense, fruit, or flowers.
Every street ends in a temple spire.
Under Buddha’s serene and golden gaze.
I shed my shoes on the temple stairs,
bow, kneel, bow forehead to floor.
Something’s always lost when a new door
opens. Something else is found.
My roots grow slowly into foreign ground.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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