We move about Mylapore, the enjambment of streets—
where old buildings list, their shadows diminished—
and look for an edge where the pattern repeats.

Blue incense curls from the avatar’s feet,
its ribbons ascend to his hand like a wish;
we move about Mylapore, the enjambment of streets,

by the balustrade trunks where the elephants sleep;
their bodies remember what a temple forgets,
and dream at the end where the pattern repeats.

Colored shoes semaphore maṇḍapa’s heat,
as temple bags glimmer beneath garland nets;
we move about Mylapore, the enjambment of streets,

where worshippers shuffle their penitent feet,
never colliding, never amiss;
they walk toward the ledge where the pattern repeats.

Inside the shrine, novitiates sing,
and pandits obscure their order of bliss;
we move about Mylapore, the enjambment of streets,
and wait for the breath where the pattern repeats.