by Larry Thacker
A monk digs without sound in the garden,
Yet having conversations with little beings, toeing them aside,
Another whispers prayers into one’s clasped hands,
Watches the fingers shiver as ghosts form inside,
Gentles them into found street bottles, then
Offers instructions to a student to deliver them to the shore across
a town once ravaged by war, now full of emptied homes,
To wait
Until low tide when he can leave the bottles in the sand, resting
Among the crabs and minnows and pebbles
When ghosts are free to swim out to sea if they so wish,
The student charged not to interfere
With the wishes of the dead, nor of the living.
He can return to the temple, or not,
Depending on what he learns from asking no questions.
