Mind Clearing in a Chinese Landscape           
                  

I am ready to go far into the mountains
to wear my rag robe and live at the foot of a tree.
I will sleep sitting up and wear the jewel
of eros like a hoof print in my forehead
and stand under the drip ledge of an old stone cave
to bid the craving self a cool farewell.

For years I drifted invisibly through blizzards
of coal dust and snow—I was the electric wire
chanting snatches from an isolate tune rising
somewhere behind the backwater of a place
where the spirits were strong in winter
and pain floated like a sacred thread over my shoulder.

But when the moon tattooed a dot of saffron light
on my cheek and the past vanished
like a lit candle lowered into water,
I wrapped my torn sandals and rusted kettle
into a blanket that I folded like a lotus
so my bones would dream of flowers.

And the music surrounded me—
the rhythms of timbrels, bells, and drums
turned my head toward the east
where mist unfolded and bloomed like japonica
along the meditation path that would take me
from trees and mountains into clouds.

Now I will follow the fragrance of blossoms
and old books, not pausing to look back
when sadness drizzles ash on my tongue.
I hold a twig of goldleaf, for contemplation,
in one hand and carry a silver coin in the other
to place in my mouth as I cross the river.