In the evening there was a vague airy talk
Of tall mountain peaks shrouded in snow
Mixed with pearl ice and the vague poplars
That lose their clear outlines to vague sky.
Vaguely we would have our ginger and tea
In earth of cups, handed by Himalayan men
In overcoats as the mouths steamed words
As if they were hilltops that spewed vapor
Vaguely in the higher reaches of Himalayas.
We would vaguely dream of the mountains
In our pillows and patience came to an end
As darkness reinstated behind shifting eyes.
And later, as we opened our eyes we saw us
In deeply held holes made of real concrete.
There was nothing vague about a clothesline
And a balcony that defined our real borders.