Last of the strong sun
on white tiles, stack of white towels,
faint piano melody from downstairs,
and the downpour of hot water on my shoulders.
I lift my face to the nozzle, close my eyes
and see mountains folded
over mountains,
smoke rising from a woodcutter’s hut,
and in the distance, billowing pastel clouds.
It must be China I am beholding
on this early summer evening—
the great sway of rivers,
thousands of birds rising on the wing,
the jade and mulberries of China,
plum blossoms—now the cry of a pheasant.
It is a vision that drains me of desire,
and leaves me wanting nothing
but to be here
in this hot steamy room
washing my neck, rubbing my sides,