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I
can
sit
here
all
night
.
In
fact
,
I
do
.
I
don
’
t
know
what
alerts
me
when
it
’
s
time
to
go
meet
my
taxi
,
but
after
several
hours
of
stillness
,
something
gives
me
a
nudge
,
and
when
I
look
at
my
watch
it
’
s
exactly
time
to
go
I
have
to
fly
to
Indonesia
now
.
How
funny
and
strange
.
So
I
stand
up
and
bow
before
the
photograph
of
Swamiji
-
the
bossy
,
the
marvelous
,
the
fiery
.
And
then
I
slide
a
piece
of
paper
under
the
carpet
,
right
below
his
image
.
On
the
paper
are
the
two
poems
I
wrote
during
my
four
months
in
India
.
These
are
the
first
real
poems
I
’
ve
ever
written
.
A
plumber
from
New
Zealand
encouraged
me
to
try
poetry
for
once
-
that
’
s
why
it
happened
.
One
of
these
poems
I
wrote
after
having
been
here
only
a
month
.
The
other
,
I
just
wrote
this
morning
.
In
the
space
between
the
two
poems
,
I
have
found
acres
of
grace
.
Two
Poems
from
an
Ashram
in
India
First
All
this
talk
of
nectar
and
bliss
is
starting
to
piss
me
off
.
I
don
’
t
know
about
you
,
my
friend
,
but
my
path
to
God
ain
’
t
no
sweet
waft
of
incense
.
