Arhats fall
off walls
through beads
that spit and chew
on cobblestones
carrying
stumps and scars
begging for coins
by the temple gates.

The corner
stands by me
turning
with the afternoon
towards the shade
of chairs sleeping
in alleyways
bored of crowds.

Tea pours
weathered hands
over tables
behind
temple walls
where the dead
buy money
for the afterlife.

Red eyes
pull cigarettes
swallowing fingers
as the past's walls
disappear
from me
and the penny
left by the dream
finally drops.
In my self I'm lost.