Robed with incense, richly professorial,
the Cambodian monk, in exile on a beach in Thailand,
tells my fortune; affirms the fabulous ending
on a veranda dusted with white sand.
Checking, re-checking frail charts
of treasured Khmerian script; attuned
to an almost inaudible call-and-response
behind the entertainment.
A dance of forms, aligned,
impersonating memory;
a major motion picture
projected onto clouds.
