My mouth must have been wide open, to smell those smells and see those sights,
even in that middle night darkness:
small groups cluttered on what passed for street corners,
one man passing honeysuckle back to another, and back again.
I was frightened and in awe and all of my
western life was trailing behind like one strap
dangling, flapping, cracking in the hazy night mist.
I began to see the city as it crumbled and collected and
piled upon itself.
I was in India,
suddenly alive again for the first time in months,
forgetting meadows and goodbyes and long,
open spaces and embracing the openness this
clutter must surely bring.