Muli

Spanned by the Shambhala sky, the dark mountains
arched. Streets ascended into moonlight.

Flying eaves, blessed by strings of prayer flags,
held rings of lotus, or fire, or clouds, or verses

of Heart Sutra flowing like air. In the town square
a stupa, white-bloused, gold-crowned, entouraged

by bronze praying wheels, imparted blessings
in a language I wished to understand. Between lanes

ornamental doors were warm to the touch,
even when winter threatened cuts on my skin.

In the wind the scent of butter tea and roasted potatoes.
A woman led a horse satcheled with corn. And me?

I had trouble sleeping. The room I bunked in
with three travelers smelled of sap. They slept, heads

on greasy bags. I wondered what they thought of me then,
who clutched a heart as a book hidden from eyes.

I was almost eighteen. I had been promised a future;
I made my way to the past. In this holy town

I invited a ghost, robed in a monastery’s pine smoke,
to tell me a story in which I could be found.