The first night.
Soldiers patrol the roofs above the swift,
punctured curves of the alleyways,
the orange strewn steps cascading down to the ghats.
An hour before prayer.
You lean over the rented canoe (and the river wide running),
offer petals in a lotus leaf for your father's mind,
corralled in the gloss of a confusion
beyond method or embarrassment.
Downstream: the pyres (do you wish to bring back the dead),
ashes scattering over hills of stone ...