Lychees

Terrace deep as the sky. Stone bench where I sit and read, I wandered by myself Into the heart of the mountains of Yoshino. In one hand a book, in the other, a bag made of newsprint— No weather-beaten bones here Just lychees bought in the market, Thirty rupees per kilogram. Stalks mottled red tied up with string, Flesh the color of pigeon wings— Sweet simmering. Sunlight bruises air Pine trees blacken. Where shall I go? The Dhauladhar peaks Are covered in snow.