reading
river hymns
in the Rigveda
before
I journey
‘round
the globe . . .
the
same pulse in my own wrist
distant
temple bells . . .
how
clearly I hear the words
in my
dream
slip into the dance
wherever you can
my
snapshot
of an
artist sketching
Shiva
carved
in stone. . .
what
eludes our grasp
climbing
the sacred hill
in
search
of the
goddess—
the way
lined with garbage
crippled
like my
own son
this
beggar
hitching
himself along
on
calloused hands
untouchable—
a mother
and child
relieve
themselves
under
the jewelers’ billboard:
trust in God and gold
the path
Gandhiji
walked
to his
death—
fresh
rose petals
in his
footprints
barefoot
I lay
marigolds
at the
flame
of a
Great Soul
still
burning
