Thursday, December 11, 2014

How is Your Heart Today?

I've grown used to my mind scratchy unsettled.

the nightgardener throwing cupfuls of water on the plants. Sonam Drakpa sweeping the bougainvillea blossoms, as they shower upon his head. two black dogs in the fallow field. and the silent nun under the window. what do i see in my mind? rotten intestines. lumps of turquoise and coral. the banter of the hotel keeper. the key for the storeroom boy.

an itch that can’t be reached.

the light in the prayer wheel house. plastic bags in the field. smoke on the breeze. little black dog curled up in the field like a snake. Acha Puri carrying black-soil-covered squash from the garden. children’s voices echoing across the valley. a thin string trailing from a rooster’s leg. the furry chicks in the garbage, in the gutter. the leper by asura cave eating potato curry.

oh the fleeting moments.

crackle in my neck. the endless fluttering. the fly trying to escape. the bottle full of pee. he said it was inappropriate. two girls jump rope with a chain. the robbers dig up the sandalwood trees at night. the doughnut man sits there all day making doughnuts in the dark—piling them on newspapers on the dirt floor. oozing bandages on the bridge.

the single bulb flashing
wanting      and wanting       and wanting.



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