We have been together in Buddha’s gentle rain
for days. Our robes are soaked through.
I try not to long for things
as your palm unwinds under my chin.
You speak to me in the simplest language,
Have a cup of tea.
I sense your compassion but my ears are filled
with water and the incense unnerves me.
You cup my ears and whisper,
Rozan is famous for its misty, rainy days, and,
The sky is always the sky.
I believe you, though I am not surprised.
Perhaps the exchange should not be
this intimate. The shadows near my eyes
and across your shaved head make us tired
and ordinary. You are an old man with dry lips.
Perhaps your middle sags as you smooth