we stood in the shop doorway, one flapping
curtain, one translucent bee wing from a
hundred exotic flights of fancy, cracking
paint the color of tree bark, soft eyes the
color of clay, sunlight splintered yellow
a cursive decal of aromas, storms
on the side of the mountain, us below
sandals, technology, sweat, transit forms
woken late, a groggy Western mind, pounds
old currency exchanged, the sun red through
my eyelids, to inspect a chart of sounds
and chakras, what harmonies to construe
the vibrations of enlightenment, all
just to buy one small brass bowl from Nepal
in the ‘Hands of Tibet’ store, I recall
the same ones imported home every Fall

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