Prayer

The first time was in the Himalayas, and the air 
was hoarse; you were thinner even 
than before -- and on your knees more


than twice now, unable to will away
the thought even of water
with curry, of curried eggs and air, curried 




sleep. It is lucky to see the Dalai Lama; we didn't
know that -- it was just something to do far from the land
of camel safaris or running from thieving
monkeys  on the foggy  streets of Simla.  
A second visit, however, will leave your life


unresolved.  I needed to know that, years later,
and didn't.  And he was charming, wearing those
wire-framed glassed and amped up -- this time in Central Park --
cracking jokes in a language I did not speak.  We'd brought
malt liquor and a blanket.  But in the mountains, 
then, it had been much colder.


The hostels were full, and you were 
gagging in some restaurant's back yard outside
an outhouse.  Did an old man really come to us? 
Was that part real? He couldn't speak, but
his grandson said to us, "Come.  We go 
see God  tomorrow," and we slept
on an unpainted wooden floor by a fire.
And in the morning you'd never been sick


a day in your life.  You, Dalai Lama, little boy,
old man -- whoever the *** will
listen to me:  my passport 
has expired and there are things 
I cannot help.  Please, fix my life.