Sarcophagus
Sunlight plays heavy
with dust
the river runs
below cliffs at Manuhirihea
sharp and bare
to the eye
remind me of the Valley
Tutankhamen lies behind glass
in the heart of a hill
stripped of his
Russian doll coats.
In the book with Ishvar
My head is far away
in a strange land where Ishvar
is paan-chewing
scratching lice from his scalp
I see a tangerine sari, the white
of his eyes, feel his silk shirt
slip through my fingers
it's cold
mist rolls off the sea
in Bermuda
where ships are captured
by demons
men scream in the night
the washing's not out
ironing heaped on a board
I'm late
think all day about Mumbai
wait
for evening to come.
