Somebody smoked
here,
the dead butt on the rocky outcrop
with the view of Lingyin Temple,
its muddy gold
four hundred feet
below,
the same colour
as my copy of Pictures…
the gone world returned
in a certain shade of copper.
The eight-hundred steps
would have been harder for a person
nursing a bad habit.
I counted them
in Chinese
and doubled their length and the way
they tasted in my mouth. Rose to bile
I swallowed like pride sitting then
on the mountainside
with Lawrence we counted together
both untitled untethered.
At the four-hundredth step a couple picked seeds
and arranged them like good fortunes
making midday shadows small on the stone.
They heard
my breathing before they
saw me.
Greetings filled a vacuum entirely natural,
two birds
were quiet on approach and sang after the fact;
I heard them
from a mile away,
maybe more, responses
to the sound
of the stray cat
coming down.
Craig Writes Things 