The Old Poets of China
Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.
In my own way, today, I drift into the mists. Anesthesia-induced, yes. Though it still counts. I’ll think of it as time travel.
And when I come back to this world, my retreat will begin. Bed and rest. I’ve put everything in order. The busy will go on without me.
If I’ve got to pull some wisdom teeth to get my modern hermitage, then so be it.
For the Archives 