The ice peaks are green,
they stretch all the way to China
in the metallic moonlight.
The scabby yellow dog, with his fleas,
sits alongside on this moraine,
watching. I pull the lost one close
as we gaze to the south.
Gaze at the ridges we crossed,
now in sharp silhouette – teeth
against yellow sheet lightening
on the Indian monsoon plain.
It dawns on me that the man
who entered this high place will not
be the man who leaves.