Bodh Gaya

Dormitory blues.

Rowdy bhikkus in saffron

shooting the shit

as the fever beds in.

A sleeping dog lies in

the shade of the Bodhi tree.

We share an earthly suffering.

Homeopathy from the monastery

does little for mine.

Over tea the Rinpoche is scornful of

quick-fix dharma tourists.

In the foyer of the Japanese hotel

the salarymen gather; buddhas

stare out from display cabinets.

Hermann Hesse on a switchback.

Narziss making fevered love to Goldmund

in an olive grove, while Kamala,

the courtesan looks on.

Woken by the throat hawking kettle

of moon-headed monks;

the floating world is sunken

by dawn's mustered weight.

The road back to the station is long,

the air heavy with dust.

Later, in the city, roast beef

passes quicker than I can say

          paragate.

July 2014