Mala
My Mala from Tibet—
teak beads for suffering beings
strung by refugees.
The sea under clouds.
Your eyes, nothing like sunlight-
oceans of darkness.
Spun silvery thread
ignited by phosphorous:
clouds below the moon.
A fading wine-stain
on the sun-drenched tablecloth:
peony in Spring.
Each Spring, for three days
in the streets they sweep away
Cherry-tree petals.
Electrical lines,
slice blue skies in sections like
children's cat's cradles.
The Vinja serene,
an Harmonium banal
—tabla are intense!
Sad now, Buddha rose—
rousing him the gods called
'Your teachers are dead!'
