For you who wrote about the promise of waterfall
Who freed my spirit with the force of language
Taught me to love the tongue I speak
And teach it one day to my children
I was in Chentsa just outside the local square
Everywhere were signboards in Tibetan, Chinese and broken English
One boasted of the best meal and another a rendezvous with girls, dyed hair, plastic implants
In these changing times are monks no more gullible than street ‘prostitutes’?
The sun scorched through the wide brimmed hat and duly burnt my insidious thought.
Far from the houses, I walked in silence towards the fateful waterfall
The pony had jumped into the swirling froth and darkness
Its lifeless head playing hide and seek
My movement predetermined, I looked to the left
He was dead, his eyes turned inward in permanent sleep
I yanked him by the hair and whispered, “A fucking waste!”
Flies hovered the air in avid anticipation, their flapping wings tearing at my chest,
I gnashed his pen against my teeth and spit it in the waterfall
A paper windhorse flew from a car window and landed on the rocks
Someone’s foolish hope —
— on which no doubt the sky will piss in sheer abandonment.