INSCRIBED ON A WALL AT CHANG’S RECLUSE HOME

In spring mountains, alone, I set out to find you.

Axe strokes crack—crack and quit. Silence doubles.

I pass snow and ice lingering along cold streams,

then, at Stone Gate in late light, enter these woods.

You harm nothing: deer roam here each morning;

want nothing: auras gold and silver grace nights.

Facing you on a whim in bottomless dark, the way

here lost I feel it drifting, this whole empty boat.