I stood on the beach waiting for Kabir. Waves flashed and huts smoked—bandits in the night. I heard ancient tongues from the water. Urdu, I thought. Meems and alifs swam into shells, my palms, my ears.

I carried the shells to the garden, empty like my linger. I saw the blush of rain on leaves, the silk of dawn lifting, stones scrubbing the riverbed—and I was bored. Which Kabir would it be? Kabir the homeless hero. Kabir struck by a lightning twig. Kabir by a rose bush. A lime tree. A thousand birds in the sky, but held—still—to clouds, branches, stars. Kabir the scratch of time.

Now I sit on the steps of the temple. Noon limps in the courtyard and broods. I get up and sweep. Tomorrow Kabir is a stranger.