Besieged, mid-street,
by cross current and clamor,
a black stone Buddha
faces four ways. Taking refuge there
men wait for work.
Sweat streaked brows so near
to sindur
smeared foreheads,
that statue
and men seem to be
brothers
rapt in guarded
conversation.
As sand falls through an hourglass
I set on a windowsill
Kathmandu devours
itself. Pavement and store fronts
pile up at the feet of statue
and men,
pile up like up like a future
seen too late.
Doorways thronged,
back alleys stammering,
the valley’s
deep
fault
lines
shudder
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