Narrative

I wish to be a monk
is what I often tell anyone
whom I want to befriend.

The kind that doesn’t show himself to others
for solitude is prayer.

I would not be surprised if they mention
that a dream not far from my own
had once entered their minds.

If it had been in the aisle of a monastery where we
had first met, perhaps, we would have paused together

at a single bead of a mystery we recited on our way
back to each of our own cells at the corner
to bow for a moment as a recognition

that we have already met
although it is only our hands that can be seen.