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A Record of My Trip to Mount She

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.



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