I stumble out of a vintage Mercedes to hunker in the stubble, blend into the background like a roman candle, tape recorder tipped in your general direction. You catch my eye as if to say that this spilling of the fruit is only part of it, the grains under your feet and in the cracks…
The back streets of Bhaktapur run and run: feet in rice, and hands in black clay, the city labours under harvest. Hand-pressed brick posing for the next natural disaster. These girls, elbows linked: their unbreakable chain. CLICK ON RECORDING TO LISTEN
Big shoes to fill, he of the blue eyes and nut brown skin, counting his knuckles for sums and pawing for change. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Plunge and pull, your paddle the best of you, your arms reaching — elbow, wrist, fist — into the black. And the boat cuts on. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Morning: the rise and fall of tiny chests, the tide in them. The old sun going on and on. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
You are knees and curls, a palette of surprise. Rehearsing a way home, your feet too small to carry you. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Feet slicing over the snow, the sky a riot of blue. Lull the babies to the huf-huf of legs pumping, and the dog racing ever onward. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
