I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
seeking cicada
that drills my brain,
I find only a shell.
i enter an empty temple.
it’s not silent.
footfalls resonate
&
floorboards creak.
but flickering flames
&
sleepy-eyed Buddhas
are quiet enough
in an hour,
the monks will filter in
with great punctuality:
monks, young and old.
(i would say, “and ages in-between,”
but they all seem young or old.)
there will be chanting,
and the din of finger cymbals
and deep-toned drums.
and i will leave
for the solace
of the world
outside the temple.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 