Dead leaf air crusts the boat-
landing's curb and swathes the voices
of calling people waiting to cross .
In a stand of trees a bell phrases
a shrine and lights begin to catch
at the river from a string of windows down
shore . Geese are drawing oblique lines ; how
many villages stretch their wings ? Now
the monkeys are treasuring their weeping ,
and my isolated prow
boards a wordless moon .