ISSUE: Spring 1978
Height after height of strange mountain scenes,
new words, new ideas in our conversation.
Wild pines blow in the wind like hanging manes;
the ancient rocks are covered with mottled scales.
I enter the temple, seek the dream-realm of the monks,
thumb through sutras, feel the dustiness
of this traveler’s life.
You, the Zen master, I, a lover of wine—
we are brothers, way beyond
the people of the world.
