bamiyan valley
two buddhas weep—
crumbling rock
air conditioner
blowing at my back—
treetops stole my breeze
window blinds closed—
blind man stares
at the moon
the statue
stands through all seasons—
even bird shit
distant thunder
and a dog’s cry—
kerouac interrupted
birds chirping
in the summer’s heat—
the choir still out of tune
graves side by side—
the poet still writes
of death
in my stomach
the ulcer speaks—
lonely night
sewing room
the thread like a rainbow—
heavy black eyes
morning farm road
caters breakfast to buzzards—
honking at strangers
clouds rolling in—
a fly caught in the storm
of my sneeze
frog floats
in the dog’s bowl—
we both jumped
church pews empty—
a hollow cocoon
hangs from a cross
june bugs gather
around backyard lights—
a midnight rave
