evening
my Japanese friend returns to his room
I sit in mine
listening to the sound of rotting wood
Then she comes again
sneaking past the sleeping attendant
she looks 14
‘You want make nice nice’
No, I don’t want ‘nice nice’, I say again
She laughs
I refuse, leave my gray fungus covered hotel
walk into a temple
Rows of orange robed monks sit all around
Death not a mystery
He lies in front of me
Burning in his saffron robe
Orange smoke spiraling up
joining night clouds and moon
At midnight
they will come and take his bones
Not a mystery
later, I sit with Buddhist children
playing a guitar
They sing melodies of the east
our voices spiraling up
joining orange clouds and saffron moon

It is not yet midnight