Speaking Sanskrit To Myself Poem by Bernard Henrie

I sleep in the arms of Brahma,
plastic red sunglasses and white
American teeth that fail to bring
good luck,

my rinsed long hair
drying uncombed on the air.

I imagine myself perfumed
with marine minerals; a garland
like a groom, but your eyes close,
your pedi-cab disappears into India.

My night flight passes over Mumbai,
the downtown filled with glorious light
as though the entire city sleeps
with the lights on.