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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