Sonnet

Somewhere in my dreams is woven cotton,
woven silk. Amid these highlands, fox hunt
for plateau pika, waiting for a spark,
sudden dash of velvet fur. I wait, mark
the land with synthetic flags, drink, devour
oxygen in canisters. Alp flower—
Galsang, happiness in Tibetan—blooms
in gelid tides. Surrounded, we consume
this material world, trusting factory-
made scarves with faith, contend morality
and emotion. The brink of this mountain,
trails by thousands—East, West, carve glacial
striation. Piles on the earth, re-ordered:
scarf, canister, headlamp, grocery bag;
            polyester, aluminum, fiberglass, prayer flag.

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