The taxi makes the vegetables fly.

‘Dozo kudasai,’ I have him wait.

Past the bright lake up into the temple,

shoes off, and

my right leg swings me left.

I do survive beside the garden I

came seven thousand mile the other way

supplied of energies all to see, to see.

Differ them photographs, plans lie:

how big it is!

austere a sea rectangular of sand by the oiled mud wall,

and the sand is not quite white: granite sand, grey,

—from nowhere can one see all the stones—

but helicopters or a Brooklyn reproduction

will fix that—

and the fifteen changeless stones in their five worlds

with a shelving of moving moss

stand me the thought of the ancient maker priest.

Elsewhere occurs—I remember—loss.

Through awes & weathers neither it increased

nor did one blow of all his stone & sand thought die.