Under them heaps of grey
our woozy post-dahl and roti
adrenals chase wakefulness
in the Starbucks knockoff
our white comfort hour
on a distant free duty port.
Some song fellow
some lyrics and rhythm
some second verse.
Tea plantation gone from eye
to cup.
Pines and ravens and shitting cows
ga-ta ga-te on the flag wrapt mountain
monkey mothers pa-ra-ga-te
with their drooping
pink teats.
Mantra spinners clanging
round the sam-ga-te circuit.
Stumbled up by cane propped
wheezing elders
sweating below hatband
fingering swinging sparkle
of another mantra circuit.
If I had clarity, I could seek perspective
but only the lapses of sleep starve
stalk me
and aversion to the
dough boy sneezing over there.
as the music cracks
stutters
gravels.
the angry wails of
that flopping child.
(Now he toddles with mom
grazing small fingers
along the white wall tiles.)
The bells and prayers and honking streets
are still there, the
smooth gliding prostration beads
before Lokeshvara of
the countless seeing palms.
it's all still there, parading
and hawking
triangular Buddha daggers
in scented roadside stalls
before the lumbering clusters
of glittering lowland tourists.
Dharamsala paints its dream anew this day
and for each foreseeable future.
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