a street here snakes past foot-wide pavements beaded with 

poppy hemp bags and leather wallets, past the cafe 

where High Monks play,

picking up vanilla marshmallows from Abidal’s Sabali and a chill 

that makes veins wrinkle all over

wrap over itself to hold warmth

                           do you feel it?

 

              you can walk down this street to meet the sun in Manali.

 

I have been here for just a day and the wind 

knows my name, carrying it 

to the distant gurgle 

(she knows where to find you – always)

                            do you hear it?

tossing, stretching it into a pizza rolling back

into a worn wish throwing it in the river 

now my name lies there with other names

glistening like wet buffaloes at noon.

 

The river owns my name now.

And I own the river my window holds.

 

a window with a river

a river of the window

a window that grew larger than its river

 

This window is a storehouse.

 

of grips and touches,

of faces without names

              of Abidal’s cinnamon rolls 

              and negotiated cheap hemp bag folds

of lovers who stood breathing the fog

while their hands fused

 

a wooden window

stainless steel handles

mounted lanterns on each side

with chrome polished hooks

a slight dent on the right one

 

a window with a river

a river of the window

a window that grew larger than this poem

 

where every cell squeezes

to make room for the emerald pine fog

 

                          you can walk down to meet autumn smoking weed while it rains in Manali.

 

this window has a blue and pink hemp bag and likes High Monks on Fridays.

 

This window is a postcard.

I send you this window.

                           Would you open it?

​

​

​

​

​

​