I walk in this country, an empty jar,
a monk who accepts only what he is given;
rice, sweetmeats, vegetables all jumbled up
in the bottom of his brass bowl.
I eat them mindfully.
I look through surfaces and observe
the patterns of molecules and how they change
with the surrounding noise.
My mind is a freshly polished table
attracting dust. The tones of
people's voices play the keyboards of my ear.
A gnarled old tree, I let myself
be rained and shone upon, let the breeze
rustle the leaves of my emotions,
not trying to understand, but waiting
for this country to speak to me.