In the place where we sleepwalked,
there are monks
waiting to prophesy something grand.
They sit still as a legend,
moving treelike only when it is time
to put a cigarette to their lips.
The embers scatter everywhere,
threaten to start wildfires
and then recede, very quietly,
while the monks, exhaling angrily,
watch the cars on the turnabout
for signs of something disastrous.