Saturday, November 19, 2011

Asian Man

Like a monk in your sweatshirt and hood,
early in dawn and dew,
you bowed by the lake,
(everyone but I was asleep
in the campsites)
and groaned, I heard you,
and prayed aloud.
I dared not approach,

I, who came for an early poem,

you were crumpled
in your loose fitting cotton,
fallen in on yourself
folded over a picnic table,
as if God stood kindly above you,
I heard your soul pour,
and I wanted to ask you--
but I dared not approach or intrude,
I had been praying for a poem,
now I prayed with you,
forgetting my quest.

Suddenly you were gone.

Before I could gather
to suggest a meeting,
Simply you were gone.

That rough table will forever
be holy.

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