from the tree
the yellow wick—
did you catch it?—
The goldfinch is a seamstress—
her beak, a needle
in a haystack
In Chandni Chowk market, people weave together.
Warp and weft thread together in opposite directions.
In the land where clouds sit between the mountains,
Where bamboo groves ring with the insect song of claves,
Where clouds stroll in and out of valleys like smoke up the chimney, or under the doorsill,
Still the smoke of the wood-fired hearth crosses the path among the bamboo groves.
White clouds hang between mountains like sheets:
The sky is airing its laundry.
Clouds between mountains drift like snow;
The valley is alive with the pulse of the cicada.
Even the jacked-up hood
over the testy engine