Deus Absconditus
In every temple compound, under some tree Exhausted by its effort to grow Unwatered, yet festooned in faded silks, These bits of broken holiness abound: Stone, plaster, plastic, terracotta, wood, Carved, moulded, fired, gaudy with crimson and gold, The head or the feet of the Buddha, a smashed plaque, A dancing acolyte dismembered, strewn Together with green sherds of splintered glass, Spirals of dog-turds, spills of litter, much Preserving all this shattered deity.
One in particular I coveted - A headless ivory figurine, its arms Spread out in blessing, each tiny fold of robe Distinctly beautiful, and intricate, And perfect in its three-inch skilfulness.
Discarded, not destroyed; not thrown away; Not quite abandoned . . . No one would know, I knew, And yet I knew I could not pocket it, Assembled, humbled, among all that trash.
Lust for possession stunted me, a tree
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