In your presence, I am
moved to swear off
attachment. So I leave
without photos
and go to the temple
yard where fuzzy
chicks cheep in a wood box
not far from monks
on mats. More birds outside
the gates – on roofs,
in the park, in cages,
the ragged cry
of a magpie, the smell
of fried chicken
wafting from a market
where ceramic
masks and golden dragons
shine on clean white
tables. I stop to buy
a red silk robe.
