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


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