holyday

A monk on the road kneels,
drags beads on the white line.
One by one they speak...
(Mack truck mantras, chrome dog days)
Strange land of hanging words,
sky as exposed and deliberate as green eyes,
ominous splintered clouds
knit by resonance.
Taking down and caressing words,
The Cipheress holds by sighs and sight.
I tempt a question to her.
“Not your place to ask”, she breathes.
The monk gathers up his beads
and is gone.