he was a awfully small dog
with an awfully large voice
we were already riding
President Salazar's train
from Porto to Vesuvius
within earshot of
an Australian entrepreneur
so we hardly noticed

A's eyes seemed filled with tears that do not fall at Dutchbat he escaped the chaffing by bare weeks 13 is an unlucky number here too
when the March for Peace is mentioned
they light up for a moment
the other time this happens
I think I had asked a stupid question
and then they twinkled
part pity part indulgence
i’m sure it’s not because he’d seen
anything new under the sun

@the battery factory, srebrenica-potocari memorial centre
outside the tunnel museum there are a few more than a pair i wonder if grandma kolar tends them still as she did the souls through that conduit with water and thorny resolve


while watching for weedy sea dragons
where reefy sea grass ought to flow
instead this one peeks
in proof of alien life?

black-winged stilts i’ve read
are known to be
collaborative home-makers
and gregarious waders
at the borehole we see them
daddy and mummy long legs
skipping skating skitters
tilted silted trippers

too young yet to savage his own feed
before puberty promotes him to
that other list of african fives
with the vulture the warthog
the gnu and the marabou
perhaps it's not a face
that only a mother would love

red-billed oxpeckers love their
gwyneths long-legged and graceful
she gets the daily exfoliation at five
they get some nesting overnight
but not before she slides in
a sundowner at the corner watering hole



Karma is deprived the driver’s seat
when the engine stalls in the morning chill
we take a substitute car to faux Eagles Nest
where we must wait too long for a meal
he’s glimpsed only once more that day roadside
at cordyceps store where we do get a good deal
Ugyen brings the blessings
in the monastery
where a couple of hundred
bucks buys lunch for each monk
I make a faux pas serving meat
to the proto vegetarian
Ugyen brings the blessings
in the morning
we wear travel braids
for three days fortune
just past the pass we toss old apples
to a lucky langur family


Ngawang fast walks 20 clicks before breakfast
returns in time to guide a stroll of guests
he’s been a monk a soldier
an 8-times snowman trekker
these days chasing the tariffs
to send his 3 girls to school
working for milk toast money
past the peak he pulls away
giving me space to descend the valley alone
there in the flurry of prayer flags
an orange butterfly leads me down