Two years ago, he used to glide past me
in the staff section of the homeless shelter,
his intense gaze dressed in black
(a throwback to his monastery days),
too taciturn to say hello.
Now, he leans in close to tell me
the government is experimenting on twins
in locked rooms in the basement of the Pentagon.
And by the way, ten years ago
on Good Friday, he and the other monks
saw Jesus materialize in the incense smoke
while they were prostrate in the service.
His once-dark beard has gone grey,
and I can see pink-red scabs at its roots
like neon signs through a dirty bar window.
His intense silence has been replaced
by a flurry of blinking, grinning,
gesticulating, I-tell-you-whats.