by on March 9, 2014 :: 0 comments

There’s no electricity in Kathmandu city
Sitting with the woman who cleans monasteries
Silver-throated by embers
Endowed from that cackling stove
The rain is of a poet’s dream
Dashing at the window sill
She sits still
Tongue knotted, inquisitive
Pranayama inhales
I walked along these hills
Lit by quarter moon
Dark stars and the wind is chaos
Caked with wet dust
I arrived here
For milk tea refuge
Native café we share in
Papaya conversations
No dialect pertaining to comprehension
Just relating
As men chuckle, conspicuous
Women fry eggs, coy and curious
I, silent, sip this tea
She takes her peek at me
I speak erroneously
They love it

editors note:

A typical day in this poet’s neighborhood. We love it, too! – mh

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