We found a narrow path for each year to travel on,
the days sloping into each other, a horse steps down a hill.
Each new year trembling like a wet bird, in colors
dazzling and negative, of people and wide streets.
We built resting places for old cripples with sacks.
Disgust or joy slides like surf across the faces of the poor.
Temples were piled up with small, touching objects
which we gave to girls on the street.
More and higher stone delights rise into the sky,
which rains. Sampans and ketches bobbing in the blue harbor.
In the country, vague tremors in the well-yard, odd clouds.
Finally, just as he predicted, as he sighed his last
out through the hut door: white ships glide into the bay.
Stars bump quietly. Wooden docks, the boulders on the shore.
Maybe I should call this my "buddhist" phase. Adolescent detachment.