None of my hunches were right in the end.
Stonehouse died several centuries ago.
The flat-topped rock on which he watched the moon
And composed singable poems about rocks
And cloudless nights while thinking Buddhist thoughts
Is still sitting there, being a rock, just
“Up the slope from the water-bottling plant.
Local farmers call it ‘chess-playing rock.’”
What does this tell us about poetry
And wisdom and sutras and strategies
For getting through another moonlit night?
I never have been any good at chess.