The poem is voracious,
insatiable, it wants to be
more than a poem;
it wants to lurk
in the cleft of a rock
where viridian shades
to indigo, extending
a tentative tendril, a probe,
like a wild idea
that feeds on desire,
becoming a brilliant star
in the submarine gloom
from time long ago…
The poem, polysemous,
audacious, craves
multiple journeys,
reincarnation…
The poem is aspiring,
it wants to reach higher
than towers, touch
the remotest snows,
rove Himalayan flanks
where blue lotus
lift delicate heads
in a worshipful pose,
adoring the skies
and the dizzying crags
that are all the wise know -
the poem wants to go
and stand on tiptoe
in a mountain meadow
beyond Zanskar
with the blue lotus host,
stamens of gold in their throats
the poem's embryos…