Will the ground ever be still?
The once fabled lake has clawed its way back.
Between the building encroached hills,
full in its midst, that’s not the lotus borne Stupa,
but the coiled fumes of a busted cow,
the city’s foul scent, festering. Walking on water,
my bed on my back, my roof in the tree tops,
my well-worn Vallejo in hand
Or was it Hikmet? Which book did I grab
from the fallen bookcase?
Does it matter? Poemos Humanos
or Human Landscape
or the journal where I scratch out
these words. If I focus too keenly before meaning
configures, the ground shifts.
But loosely clutched, pages well-turned,
the earth stills. Looking up … Swayambou
breaks through the early morning mist
Seizing the horizon, as if written
in stone, it lays out the path. Not a mirage
A lotus… There! Where it always was
Full moon or dark moon night
Before or after, these many days later
the earth never stills