Taxiing up on the narrow
serpentines of Chitrasal’s slope,
up to the church of
nine celestial bodies.

In the parking lot wandering tourists,
garbage and monkeys.

The rusty white door of the church
wide open.

Anyone might enter.

I pull off my shoes
at the red stairs.

Step barefoot on the warm stone
and set off for the
squat chapel with
a ridged dome.

Golden bells like udders
hang on top of the
peak-arched entrance.

As when you look up at
the August night sky:
peace in the sanctuary’s
gloom.

The eight lingams in circle,
knee-high erected
pillars of Shiva.
The tiny candles twinkling
at their feet are
sparkling sperms.

I pass round
the lingams
clockwise.

My body’s force is
my mind’s.

The priest behind
encourages me to step into the centre,
the ninth one, the Sun,
is waiting for me there.

As if I was walking on
warm black wax,
soft stone under my
soles.

I lean down to the Sun.

I would photo
The space enlightened by candles
But my phone is
Dead.

Someone laughs outside.

A scraping monkey of smaller size.

One step ahead of it
an open rift.

Underneath meanders
as a green anaconda
the virile stream of the river of Asia:
the spoiled saint
Brahmaputra.