The river’s soft pistons, the river’s black silkUnder shooting stars—The voluble ink and silver-white skyLooming above the stark monasteryBecome the coppice elk’s vast eternity—The duenna moon,All at once coquettish,Brash as sin, blanchesThe river-curve, the heron,The corral of fast-asleep horses—August: the soul says,Yes, I was there:When raffish, runaway flamesClaimed the orphanage,When rampant smoke drove the dyingInto the summer sea;Present when riled protestors criedIf they fire into the crowd . . .And then they fired into the crowd;When the aghast stranger, fingeringAn appalling dungeon photo, asked,What sort of God would allow that?—More than fleet, querying owls,More than nightlong watchmen,Born wide awake and dying, I confessNot even this wondrous colossusOf shooting stars,Or the extravagant Earth’s countless beautiesSeem capable of quenching this lust,This innermost hunger for return—Lord Buddha, God of Abraham,I’m thirsty, fallible,Incensed and restive in this desert monastery,But not yet resigned,Full of questions and parryingFrom wolf’s hour to blue hourTo burgeoning dawn—