second draft
Eight days in Lhasa
for Matthew Power and Steven Schroeder
Zhongdian
Xiangalila (Shangrila)
in my ears
air so thin, so pure
this must be
the sound of less than nothing
lungs at rest lean uphill
mountains throw themselves around
sunshower from my hotel windows
dry height they have here leaves you hungry
they're building the old town right now
believe me it will be truly ancient
older than Lijiang, more authentic than Dali
flying in we saw the clouds in Yunnan
a blind sweep down between clad ridges
and cosy the country in pyjamas
waiting for sky to lighten
day to brighten
for breath to draw itself
from attention
the higher the sky
the further from heaven
sun fierce at this height
still a long way to go
in the room the kettle starts
like a truck climbing endlessly into mountains
switchbacks and gravel, devil’s elbows downhill,
breaks are spongy
just as dreamt
on the road's wrong side,
never giving way
you can wear
your old dusty pants
west in China
no one minds …
my Shangrila –
a country where
you can’t be overdressed
blessed bells at flutter and the ringing drapes
cowboy hats come through the temple court
leave drizzling day behind
slight shit smell as well
rich red robes of the faithful
their footwear various
two monks stroke the temple’s luck lions
a ragged hag rings prayer wheel round
lads at prostration make a sound like mahjong
for distance
hear two-stroke labour
at the dreaming hill
walls are alive with
the journey made wheel
the wheel bent to streets
where everyone sings
how
night falls for certain
how
close the lowing hills are knit
at last lying in bed with the rain
a breeze gathers curtains
around the lit doorway
thus splitting joining
the sign for eternity
prayer flags at Da Bao Monastery
the wheels creak like birds
where pilgrims have passed
some prayers are trod to ground
none forgotten
a forest of flags all ages
above
wheels all the way up the hill
and we turn them
for world peace
for friends absent, present,
for this place, its people
for all we selfish selves desiring
on the way and gone
in cowbells now a sow approaches
rooster heralds all
prayers knotted through trees hill high
all flags tied to this one breath
the sky composing
a roof of prayers
pouring home these words
to air devoted
and high above
the motor's hum
hear the shepherd's
horns attending
chicken on the grassy rooftop
squirrel in the arms of pine
shadows of prayer flags
grounding move earth
the mountain itself in prayer
where the flags soak in with each rain
and there are clouds
the day has brought here
brought with the silence
of words long since left
after this singular breath
say eternity
there comes
the scramble of tourists
reminding me
who I am
eight days in Lhasa
day one
the wind mistaken for the rain
down to the smell
of strange light on rooftops
as if the world’s brightness
were turned up
beginning of the world a storm
no thing to know then
no one to know
a wrinkled folk
squinting with
storm in the cloud sea
from which the world churned
clouds like milk
world butter below
a king thereafter cord descending
rights divine assumed
or there is this other cast
a monkey and these breasts misshapen
vulva from which tribes are sprung
the monkey was Chenrezig
from his compassion
all descended into human form
*
landing here
already an hour of the day absented
all the way from the airport
hands held out
mushrooms offered
red flags
show happy peasants abiding
selling the season
shells of homes
the hills alive with nomad tribes
and later with the hour retrieved
the same or subtly changed
showtime
then the wheel begins
a turn around the Bakhor
- holiest of the city’s circuits
where everything is bargained for
filthy without touching a thing
breathless just turning in the bath
just standing, drinking water
breathless just breathing
*
past glass
a sky of nights never come
monks on mobiles
circle the Jokhang
eyes slow into the mountains, stumble
hungering for breath
Samsara then – the suffering sea
because the world was wished to be
lose an hour
but the clock takes us in
top of the world smells of shit
you can’t expect enlightenment on the first day
I frame the advertisement
it says
‘Come to Tibet! Feel twenty years older!
Climbing stairs here is like climbing a ladder!
Feel like a mountain climber! Come to Tibet!’
day two
waking
in early hours it comes
high wind on the high plain
in memory of skies long since
dawn improvised
from night’s spare parts
windows storm rattled
mist to light
sound of sweeping in the courtyard
then when the rain settles
gentle on the world below
first flies adorn the casement
and the voice of a goat from city depths
Dorian Gray
on top of the world
tankha is mirror
picture of the striving self
the Buddha you will be
pinch yourself – be here
be sunk
be these your depths
reflected
everyone can haggle
for tankha
the kind mechanically made
authentic peasantry’s devotion
authentic bourgeois decoration
the drum in your temple
beats against
time’s irrelevance
tankhas come with silky covers
so that the devotee
need not be frightened
by the mirror
she makes
of desire
Potala 1
anyone can see
peasants were
needful of liberation
from feudal superstition
from overlord rantings
look at the palace of chapels
devotion cascading
down the stone hill
peasant hands
threw all this up
call devotion
their thrall –
in the land of snows
a lion throne
see here
handprints of the fifth
footprints too
small but compassion
can leave an impression
how many tonnes of gold
still in the fifth Dalai Lama’s
gorgeous tomb stupa?
today
white rabbits and golden monkeys
guide us through the Potala
to the snake room
aptly named for
the tantra tantrums here enacted
wakey wakey!
everything as the boy lama left it
except for the drifting veneer
of change renewed ever
in small notes from China
peasants are still peasants here
it was the fifth’s short lived successor
who could piss from the top of the Potala
and exercise such tantric acumen
he’d draw the urine
back up into himself
just before it hit the ground
he whom the Jesuit described
in terms of unbridled licentiousness
‘from whom no good looking person
of either sex was safe’
the seventh is famous for the sand mandala
still has to be kept under glass
time in all its strange centuries sits here
under eternity’s emblem
and what if this tomb were the poor’s only joy?
this cave of sky theirs alone
if just this one opiate worked,
then we’d see
dull uniforms in bromide
needful of liberation
from conception’s flat wheel
still turning
we all are
home into dreams
the pilgrim’s way
let peasants be peasants
white rabbit and golden monkey
sweet magic dissolving in us
we dissolving
step by step down
like a woollen flag
lowered
from heaven
for winter
till no one
sees
the steps
at all
call that
a liberation
in memory of that lovable rake
the sixth Dalai Lama
bring on the wisdom girls
tiger and apple
call me king if you like
the bar-girl and the beer
my refuge haven
‘as long as the pale moon
dwells on the mountain
bliss from the female form
is mine’
o I’ll come back as a handful of dust
but for the moment compassion’s form
suggests an earthier boyish norm
or you might call it lust
Bakhor circuit
every day
the wheel desiring
round we go
the Buddhist shoppers’ paradise
nirvana this for tourists too
whistling street of bicycle taxis
rancid with wafting smoke
of the butter lamps
devotion to motion
colours days with smog
joy in the mantras
prayer flags blacken
all this from the tourists’ rooftops
Bakhor – the endless wheel – desire
venerated in objects of devotion
they’re the kind you take home
hang on wall
or round the neck to travel
spiritual calm you bring your corner
drawing to it eternity’s dust
and pack away in a drawer at last
under hats of every colour
dark jowls
fingers press cloth across the machine
the lamps burn on
let us loosen the imagery
or call that appropriating
hear tractors plough through city streets
Lhasa – goat city
rain recedes but mist clings on
smoke rises to the challenge
it’s feet which turn the wheel
feet the without which
wishing’s done for
feet – the slaves
of desire and devotion
nodding
night comes singing
from the streets below
shouts musical too
and the dogs’ dull percussion
something competitive
in and of the throat
as if they had learned
how to strangle each other
rain and the night take up
kingdom of theocrats
each to the eternal submitting
image of Maitreya
anniversary Potala
ringed by its smoke wreathed circuit of stalls
carpet shops, pilgrims prostrating
behind the hoardings for the celebration
of so much Tibetan autonomy
across the road from the Agricultural Bank
where none of the auto-tellers play today
here’s the pile of stones for the fifty kwai note
wu shi ren min bi
day three
pranayama
every day here
the practice of breathlessness
one drum in this temple beats against
irrelevance of time
heart less pumping
nothing slows the chatter
against breathlessness
silence as practice
mind to its drum
runs on
the Dhod Gu Hotel
first fly of day
its paws at rub
to waking light
preparing
always preparing
a western orientalism
room burnished within
the cornices all gold adorned
a team of craftsmen
have fashioned my room
out of Nepali colours
indeterminate face
all morning to get up
to get the hang of
prayer flags at flutter
washing on lines
on the stairs meet
the West’s new Reich of the groove minded mystic
health conscious, how they pick here like sparrows
like that spoilt boy Gautama
who’d never seen suffering
nothing is good enough for
the Babel grumbling legion
among whom number me
because there’s
no amount of objectification
gets me off the list
outside the world adorned in mist
unknown motors hailing
through windows
the Dhod Gu Hotel has no lift
climbing those stairs
rancid risings of the street
even to this fourth floor height
twenty years older
what better meditation
on decay to come
Lhasa
at the top of the stairs
a basin scraped from the mountains around
as where a dog came burying
down there the police
red epaulettes, black caps
at table singing, whistling
all stages between
chanting
breakfast in steam
the whistling stops
for breath must be
caught with breakfast
Bakhor Circuit
how to breathe in the smoke that is offered
(Wednesday is incense day)
kup hei fu hei
in Cantonese
attention is drawn
where nothing should be
the Bakhor circuit – shop lined
stalled arrangement of temptations
against which true pilgrims are proof
there are plenty of fakes here
everyone’s telling me
see the man beating his child
with the prayer beads
they’re authentic,
so is the action
and to be fair
he’s beating himself as well
on every shopfront
flags of the nation
on every rooftop
prayer flags rot
breath dissolves
to smoke
like prayer
feet falling endlessly on
aum mane padme aum
Jokhang
the hive of Lhasa
wheel unto itself
turning
where other worlds have overtaken
this our world
blameless remains
as always
light cast through smoke
mote beam
before the Jokhang main gate
throng of prostrators
crowd of cameras behind
best to bring your own bedding for the job
cardboard knee protection
some gardening gloves will come in handy
a thousand Buddhas watching the thieves
watching the crowd
blue sky through the wheel
always higher to climb
*
gold glints in the darkness
there’s an opening
prostrate before the Jokhang
circling
perpetual motion
a line dance to the holiest corners
thermos and prayer wheel
each keeping hold
low hum like a hive
the mantra is moving
butter lamps burn ever on
*
which thou least holy?
the old Tibetan man washing his raw corn
from the revered tap
tourists washing hands over his corn
the girl with a camera who catches it all
monk unconcerned brushing by
the foreign devil with the pen
who gets it down
your reading eye
mind behind that
?
all second guessing
perpetual motion
there’s
oiling the prayer wheels
but that’s not enough
another devotee comes after
with a rag for the drips
*
a slit in the roof whence the pilgrim’s proceeding
devotion needs must be public performance
selves lost in the forward flow
light of day above the dark
a moment’s calm in smoke
nothing unpainted
nothing uncarved
on the roof with his mobile
where cameras blaze
their here and now
thus mock the eternal
mocks them
between her face and the lens
the old woman holds her prayer wheel
a refuge in the dharma there
*
a spin together
they’re a wheel
we’re a wheel
spun and spinning
done, beginning
by cloisters beside
come sudden calm
ruined chanting
rickety echo
colours subdued here
worship is public performance
tashidele with monks we whisper
enlightenment strides out of light
through doorway
clears the throat to spit
crowd at a distance
merely mumble
seeming stillness
yet it flows
*
the mountains too in prayers are wreathed
everything sewn together
gorgeous the images
lean every way
the tourist not knowing which way to turn
blue sky through the wheel
there’s always higher
and when you’re finished climbing
see how the sky still keeps at its distance
blue greys into smoke
till
dark of streets lost
last shutters come down
at Dunya’s
– on Beijing Donglu
place of refuge
where we
drink altitude tea
before going home
to the oxygen pillow
on streets of Lhasa
the lungs are never filled
the throat is never cleared
but on Beijing Donglu
at Dunya’s
world away
I seek refuge from the filthy air
the crowds of pilgrims
their lice
and the more microscopic lice tormentors
unwelcome tenants of the gut
let me be no refuge for
bring me the coconut lassi!
day four
inside out
so many dream tracks
this one night
the bath runs
kettle boils
away
outside the chanting
more melodic than ever
voices of women
sleep leans in
these many lines
climbing stairs like a young man again
dreaming the sea,
of sea levelling
billow bright
sun slanting
wake to the full orchestra
mist lifting, cymbals
then cloud smog grey
in the highest
traffic’s dull rhythm
the all accompanying
modernity of place
so tiring to talk
descending to breakfast
meet them on stairs
I’m the man who wasn’t there
tomorrow – won’t it be the same?
how cold was your shoulder?
disappointing to find foreigners
in Lhasa
the tourist annoyed
won’t even avert eyes
throws back more of accusation
against fellow feeling
too tough for the suffered comforts round here
shouldn’t they be staying at the Cesspit Hotel?
or the La Du Zi Lu Dian?
the Lonely Planet tells such a story:
a woman lost her footing, fell in the pit
and a day in the bath
new clothes head to toe
had a hard time thereafter
parting with her shit smelling money
we fortunate others
keep puffing as if
there were merely
bad air to expel
Norbulinga
summer palace of the Dalai Lamas
the playground in ruins
prayer flags still fly
first chapel features
Tara
that girl
with her head
in a tizz
and
her hands
full of cash,
turning made easy
with that many arms
midtemple the bee loud buzz
meditation finding its public
which next on the circuit
accosts authentic
peasant songs
work chants
they chew gum while they’re singing
you try it
they’re rebuilding the palace
beating the mud roof home
I catch
outpouring of these lungs
with MP3
silence of bicycle
below feet of passage
they’re noted
on paper
and blog into book
the great museum of mind
files all
precincts of temple
just next door to zoo
where cruelty finds objects truly other
how can compassion take human form?
what other form would it find?
*
marigold, sweet William
unknown flowers
grace the paths
incense and butter lamps
make rancid faint breath
gridlock in the garage
so many palanquins
two tiny stone pandas
supplicate for our rubbish
*
the summer palace
just as he left it
bath still running
BBC in its walnut static
Mary Celeste of
the eastern theocracy
whence the 14th Dalai Lama (the present)
fled into the self help wonderland of the West
*
small boys tugging robes between cartwheels
monks good humoured in their robes
as tolerance insists
a mantra to butter gods up
stuffed tiger in the temple
where lamps
burn on devotedly
the playground is at prayer with its ages
the sky is Tibet’s ruined flag
the Tibet museum
Its celestial poise since antiquity never fails to agitate our patriotic pride.
– first caption in English on the wall walking in
high cheekbones on the high plateau
close to the ancestral grounds
it is the land of the talking calculator
Duo xiao chien? – they scrabble for the battery
when white faces loom
sky-scraping tablelands
are something to shrug off
lofty mountains, torrential rivers
welcome you – honourable guest
history steals a march on us here
glorious and comradely
future as wry as the past
join up the dots
in any tongue – progress!
yes it takes patience
what else have we got?
the streets are a museum too
of wheel and hoof
getting gone
I’ve never seen so many solar powered kettles
midsummer and still
I’ve never seen even one come to the boil
ten p.m.
pilgrims abed
streets belong to tourists and taxis
street vendors pack the world’s treasure away
it’s only the hard core devout
prostrate now
around the Bakhor,
around the Jokhang
around the clock
they go
two pilgrims even
cover the circuit with synchronised prostrations
which could be Tibet’s contribution to Olympic culture
and why not?
safety in numbers, moral support
surely the truly devout wait for winter?
day five
refuge
a day’s fast on roof tiles
among the street’s calls
it was a fitful sleep brought me
ineffable distant hills
pavement smoking
call dusk
mists wreathe
in mountainous day
edge dull green
damp in the courtyard below
watch birds diving
out of rooftops rising
deserted
all red flags now
fresh at the breezes
how tawdry old prayers
limp swaying in clouds
sign the decaying order
by the window opposite
man of my age sits smoking
child in the window too
bobbing agitated as if full of questions
behind – a wife cooking
all the one room
refuge in bed
for the loose bowelled voyeur
smoke manages its way to clouds
as if there were no distance at all
hear rain on a tin roof
telling me home
beggars of Lhasa
elbow pinchers
grubbing
great unwashed
ingenious folk
hard to see how they do it
where the limbs and the timber attach
to what end
meld with the pilgrims
who will say they are not?
I place a biscuit in the beggar’s bowl
discover the child
only seemed to be hungry
there’s the busking chant
makes pilgrim mendicant
or is it the other way around?
the way won’t be told
nor will names be named
so why not sit down in the road
take what comes?
compassion is all we humans require
it has to be bodied, a home
a traveller’s tale
meet Constipated Woman, meet Mr Squirt –
a third world travelling Jack Sprat and wife
toyed with the idea of a swap
but it’s best in the end to own your own ailments
dizzy days
on the tiles
sun struck
wind driven
weary we take the Jokhang circuit
old Lhasa hands now
see the black faced sheep
bleat for high pasture
take off the pressure and nothing runs right
even this Rolls Royce
of cheap Chinese fountain pens –
this Hero
behaves erratically
now it’s come to the great wall
I have in mind
day six
the meditation on decay – travel version
neither has it killed me
nor has it made me strong
still one feels good to feel good
alive alive
such are the tricks of unceasing desire
the body is a porous prison
bars of the soul lie always beyond
rain won’t daunt
cloud like a white scarf
draped through the mountains
like a welcome, a rite of purification
foregrounding flight
the birds attend it
summer snow
and the river runs
from a distance
all courses down
the landscape is a tankha too
silk covered
sky mirrored
in soul and above
so let it be
with our sphincters
*
though rancid butter is a help
and can always be left
in the sun as required
the meditation on decay
as advised in the sutras
is best effected by proximity
to human faeces
how hard can it be?
the stuff’s always with us
the serious pilgrim tourist
can take away
a shit censer
to swing around at home
when the air gets too fresh
smoke and rancid butter
mingled rise
an aerosol version is being developed
though the irony of such a product
may yet be lost on the more zealous consumer
point is
something’s got to be got
out of the system
oxygen juice – the latest drink
freshly squeezed from the air
it’s angry demons emerge from my bottom
proving the path to enlightenment nigh
Lhasa today
the Chinese town thrown over the prayer wheel
mandala of how the world has to be
flags are their own means of production
peasant and soldier and scholar one
Drepung monastery
1
water tears off the mountain
turns a wheel in the stream
snot nose temple brats
mindful of
the mantra magic
work their charms
on the up toiling tourist
the creek with lost flags knotted below
butter is the nation’s fuel
and we breathlessly await butter powered vehicles
to bear us up the endless stairs
provided as if to prove vain
efforts at enlightenment
it’s best to build your monastery
high on a hill
not only for the panorama
but to have the invaders
puffed when they come
so slower, so easier to pick off
that way you’ll be able to go on
most of the time enjoying the view
2
transubstantiation
of the old icy waters
give me a pair of Tibetan lungs
big mountain heart
pilgrims bring butter
to keep the lamps burning
monks scrape butter back
make space for more
in the temple
monkeys in karma pyjamas
turn cash into merit –
the temple is strewn with yi jiao notes
each of which bears pictures of determined tribesfolk
looking hopefully left to the future
3
how then can the face of Maitreya be known?
bitter tears of the child with no cash from me
here’s the authentic I came for
it’s pathos
but rules are rules – today my change is only for buskers
and so now I am privileged to see
all the stages of a tantrum
how expert the acting
the heart in it all
it’s busking
I give
I learn how
everything bends till it breaks
till it’s broken
the wheel can be expected to turn
imperceptibly
in our eyes
foot after foot
tashidele
tashidele
but I am a tourist and as such
take refuge where there is a tap
cold water – clean hands
to clap
4
imagine a race of aliens comes
nothing they can’t have
we won’t give
you forget where you are
hear the wheels
you forget
which stairs you came up
which walls came apart
behind us the mud grows over again
monks here mainly counting cash
then where to seek for dispensation?
5
so playful
can we call it religion?
playing at praying
just look at these lads
mum with the butter thermos
these two tumbling
with the monks
on their beds
6
at the highest point a lama blesses me
he ties a charm around my neck
wu kwai
all downhill from here
Lhasa satori series
after the 5 kwai blessing and amulet
breathing improved
but I discovered I still had the runs
after all
*
on the bus I learn
the Lhasa cigarette is much closer to incense
than anything you’ve smoked before
three puffs to the stick
passive smoking on the high plateau
it’s really a comradely thing
*
in bed breathless
to get out the mantra of tantra
enticements of the lower peaks
those sea level endearments
we all love so well
*
rain like the footsteps
of everyone everywhere
a planet lost
in puddled light
bicycle wheels churn home
day seven
untitled
a shell to the sea
hear the river run there
ridiculous wishes
sustain the mind
the way it goes
one day’s thought leaks into the next
the motion accounted
not in steps taken
but turns of intent
by morning the dreaming mind
has made each bleat of the goat
the sound of someone throwing up
why is this goat here anyway?
who cares?
distraction’s welcome
bowels sync at last
Sera
1
breastfeeding on the steps
temple hags beg
body as performance
to illustrate desire’s dire results
up the stairs you can hear the hive humming
testosterone chants in the hall
imagine those boys buttering
each the other up
hill of nervous goats behind
there’s a cloud of flies
at the temple’s door
here for the novelty of summer
gold highest to heaven
moss cleaves the stones
that hold the wall
a single bare bulb
hangs blankly
then you come upon the chapel
five hundred monks chanting
a scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark
proof of the despotism of orientalisms
you’re the voyeur leaning over
with digital camera, MP3, sketchbook
long nose in the primitives’ trough
from up here on the mezzanine
see monks and their mantras
and the less devout
sipping, chatting, swapping tales
swapping phones
incurring and repaying debts
overseen only by the tourist
a refuge in these
eyes of compassion
fellow feeling
then here come the Polish breasts on tour
‘tashidele,’ I say
2
the difference between superstition and religion
like the distance from money to cash
I put an ear to the ancient conch
I hear the world revolve
a tiger, a whole mandala of sand
the pilgrim as ant explorer
monastic slut
smell of the short cuts
heaven attends
to stand outside temples
taunting the faithful
whom would that be to mock?
3
on the prayer circuit
a sea of suffering
fed here and now by a river of rubbish
very postmodern
cattle around the cattle skull mound
model human obliviousness
the all-there-ever-is to depict
and is there any other kind?
‘you can go up little goat,’ she said
the etiquette of pilgrims is such
our self made guide grizzled
speaks unintelligibly
but with fervour
the pointing is a sop
sky home blue here
desire!
at last I recall it
the line which was lost
the pivot, the light
the mast
which would have lit the poem whole
what was it again?
4
broken glass crowns the weed high wall
enlightenment is not for all
the three o’clock gong
a report from the stellar regions
saved by the locked door
feet fall forward too –
into a circle
of words as well
fort da fort da
religion is repetition disorder
finding it can’t be the way
surely it finds you just
en route
at your business
among all things already lost
thank God
this is not a religion
5
a sleight
to claim existence not clung to
iconoclasm
trespass
unknowing
: these are the tricks to unfocus desire
comes down to
who’s got the best story
the wonder of all things
primitive as they seem
endow the mind with wonder
faith is what you won’t get round
it turns the world
live by it
but after all
because the breath is wanted yet
and laughter needs pause to resume
6
the dogma of poetry
let self efface
sutra of the mist descending
which ridges cannot rise beyond
back on the Bakhor
lice and nits among street vendors
call this a free exchange
‘money, money’
you hear descending
and it’s my language at last
hands out make the ‘gei wo’ sign
adding to this day’s universals
the crumpled form
the dirt clad shape
the old frail hand
which reaches out
to touch the one
I’ll wash ’ere long
I mean asap
last morning
clatter of motors
the day commencing
rhythm deepens
like sweeping
like chanting on a higher plane
or sex on the floor above
traffic of Lhasa is yet
to embrace the muffler
this is Wednesday – the incense day
weeds deemed aromatic
burn everywhere on the pilgrim circuits
taunt of the town in the smoke
which measures out the sky
to call its spirits home
China is an inalienable part of Tibet
ignorance and superstition
a business of chickens and eggs
you build a road
you plan to stay
there’s no apology
green of high summer
cloud taller and taller
without a name
you go to the lama
the higher the better
now that the sack of the city is done
ah but they’ll say – no city before
we’ve the stone spittoon of hoary tradition
mucus the colour of jade set in motion
commemorates the friendly conquests
the world’s bright rooftiles
and higher still
the stupa treasures
see credulous locals
prostrate before the Potala
crowding out the footpath
don’t they know he’s in Daramsala –
that’s where democracy is
these lamas are wisdom incarnate
their wisdom of the inherited kind
before the rough timber hoarding
behind which the fortieth anniversary
party dignitaries on their podium
will backdrop the Potala
all China’s long tradition
for this week
all tourist permits cancelled
in our Tibet
how colourful those tribes
nation makes various
Kunming
one muzak there is
below all others
tunes the soul to what is, will be
devised it is and unintended
in heavy traffic
in dense smog
the man with the cured pig legs
six of them in the basket
back of his bike
sways and leans
and finally pulls over
to improve his mobile reception
not even you, my reader
can find this remarkable
posted by Kit Kelen at 6:40 AM
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