by Isaac Robertson
The long serrated grasses of the Sri Sri Radha Krishna Farmhouse
cross off date after date on our calendars.
We, the bastions of old spiritual regard,
we are much too wizened now to clench them with our ritual lips.
Yet do you notice the llama trainer sitting by the slop pond?
He lets the horse flies and faded butterflies condense
onto his muggy, elbow-patched tweed jacket, his soapy beard, his angry haunches.
He spits into the sediment and smears his own eyes with it.
We are here, ready, too.
