On Sitting with a Great Master, Yet Not Finding Him 

—after Li Po 


The room, in shadow.
A quiet white afternoon.
The plastic snap
of the cat door. 

Cradled in a low 
wooden rocker
I sit across from 
you. Translucent 
skin, glassy eyes. 
Tissue paper 
in tailored wool.

Two more hours 
until the next meal.

The forked distance
from plate to mouth, 
a last manageable act.

I know the answer
to the question I 
prepare for you 
while you sleep. 

You surface cursorily 
with an odds-on 
answer, a guesswork 
effort to play along. 

No one can say
where you have gone.