built over time into a stupa
where pilgrims each bring
one stone to place upon another
and another until the stack tilts
and another must begin,
the white heap, which is
what stupa means, steps
to a window at the bumpa
where the Buddha’s heart
would beat, the glass there
taking on the tarnish of weather
at this high altitude, where ascent
and thin air leads inexorably
to the sadness I can’t help
bringing to this place,
the stone I bring to place
upon another: in its treasure
I think someone should lay up
the papers his sister sought
to rectify his accounts.
A vial of the paint, mango-
colored, he used for the walls
where he would take a bath.
The rings he wore on either thumb.
Somehow, a leaping up of dogs
and the sound and stir of birdwing,
The fallen buttons from his black shirt.
The strings of beads parting as he
stepped from one room
into another
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