Dust waltzes in relentless spirals,
Turning the city into a sepia dream,
A mirage of itself, crumbling at the edges.
The air hums with the grind of engines, incense, rotting fruit and offerings.
The stupas leak eternal chant through their cracks,
Clinging to the diesel fog with the weight of earth’s sorrow.
Here, the real and the imagined
Bleed into one another like watercolors.
My eyelashes hold back the sun’s liquid heat,
Melting shadows into pools of trash,
Distorting the faces of the wandering crowd.
How does one captures what isn’t there?
I adjust the pinhole on my camera
Hoping the flaw will catch
What the perfect lens cannot:
The way you ripple, Kathmandu.
The way you refuse to be held.
You burn, you drip, you melt,
And I am too soft to keep you.
