We wound with the road
on foot
nudging
rusty pine needles and purple flowers
toward the
hilled monastery,
clenched in heat's teeth
we were pinned
by the stopless skirl
of blue-dappled,
long-horned cicadas
to the memories
of '68 Tet
when pits of bodies outside Hue
steamed;
the old Vietnamese priest
crooked a finger
hissed us aside
in French-spiked English:
"Your driver is VC."
Ah.
Done and undone
by the whispers of priests.