i am waiting for my laundry
to be delivered, in Kathmandu
where my good name abides, conjoined
with my good form, conjoined with
sensations that tickle every sense
faculty silly
You wait, OK? instructs little Tara,
a doll from the horse-warrior clan,
Tamang, double T, Tara Tamang; the sound
of her name whinnies from the faces
of mountains. The streets here are jumbled,
copperish brick, uneven and charming,
leading ever inwards —
like everything
else, they swirl in the magnetic
orbit of that center of the universe
that is
The Great Stupa: the Ultimate
Pagoda: it
billows forth irresistable
waves of attraction, it’s piercing eyes
mesmerizing your own personal world
of apparent sensibilities
and possible wavelengths,
gathering force with centrifugal
fervor, honing in on itself and
targeting
your innermost heart.
Wise eyes, you do abide
And with your power I
Take a ride, unrivaled
Master of
Most subtle tides…
Tara comes: my laundry arrives.
Boudha, Kathmandu, Nepal
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