In ‘Novotel’ blue A temple French smokes, This ‘Marlboro’ suckling fans thin Buddha’s to good time Englishmen in Tuc Tuc plumes. Last night in Jos stick vapors prayer smoke transported her, to acres of lemongrass, bowing to her as she ran in zig zags, the way she was taught in the skull years. Fields are curbs now bringing bartering shadows of vulgar dialects, back alley exaltations. His thigh hairs now lemongrass from Khymer rouged hands. Two thousand prayers away a field of lemongrass will be etched in zig zags her thighs will tremble like pollen over Choeung Ek.