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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