I know all of you but still sometimes feel
part of you outside in the world somewhere.
Contained, archaeologists fossil chase,
returning indoors only for prayer.
It’s always been what I love about you:
coronal sweat with a separate heartbeat:
thumping, auteurishly self-sufficient,
it lives aside you even in traffic.
You know me all but sometimes I see
two perpendicular universes
trading glances before the Pujari
sanctions our travel with knowing smiles.
I miss the silver streak in your ringlets
wrangling its peers – and with all that too
much was said about your laugh,
the forlorn yawp of Timbuktu.