I sleep in the arms of Brahma,
plastic red sunglasses and white
American teeth that fail to bring
good luck,
my rinsed long hair
drying uncombed on the air.
I imagine myself perfumed
with marine minerals; a garland
like a groom, but your eyes close,
your pedi-cab disappears into India.
My night flight passes over Mumbai,
the downtown filled with glorious light
as though the entire city sleeps
with the lights on.
Bernard Henrie
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/speaking-sanskrit-to-myself/
