By the Lamp, opposite of the burnt Wall

Caviar from that big lake in Iran, a sign of affluence yields to thoughts reaching toward something--nothing better to do than climb for the upper echelons of people occupying the cult of identities, adjacent to the mind-sore (hurt from the reading of the predominate excess) existence of mine. Four Hindus working: they have four places of shoe-cobbling, two on the ground, in this cubby of the bazaar (Mumbai), & two in the berth directly above--only room enough to sit/ shared livelihood/ tools of the trade all lying around. One Mind. Knowing that I find a society with a god, who has no heart, is a ditch full of blood to which I throw myself upon its banks, before I can know what is right, because the sufferer has a man who drowns in his eyes, and he/she wants him to stand up & salute. I exalt in the salutation for the Sun. A Jewish woman swarms her hands across the candle light (touched her eyes), it ripples like stains of ritual for which for her there is no exclusion. Lighting my incense, I pretend I attend to a fire at which I am chaste at its perceived violence, and find ways to demur from the hard shine of daily toil--breathing in the black smoke, exhaling the white.