Monos

So rarely they are, the monks,

That is, alone, it’s almost

More funny than ironic.

It’s not just one tradition—

Despite the Sword-Horn Sutra,

Buddhist monks are swarms of robes,

And the same is true of nuns.

Holy time may be quiet

As one, breathless, some evenings,

But mostly they work in teams,

Teams in uniform, of course,

As in competitive sports.

The Taoists and the Gnostics

Had their hermits, more or less

Austere or ostentatious,

But solitude, loneliness—

Those don’t comport with Sangha,

The Community. One monk,

One nun, utterly alone,

Out of uniform, at large,

No matter how ascetic,

Pious, self-abnegating,

Devoted, faithful, isn’t one,

Really, really isn’t one.

Perhaps there is an order,

Secretive of course, of monks

In disorder, all genders,

All ages, no formal faith,

Wandering the world alone

Every one of them, unknown.