are baptized in July

with four thousand

pink scimitar-flowers,

trampled and chewed

by wild, wild goats.
Snowcocks hound their temples,

the smoking rockscape

hollows that seem to breed

in this part of Pakistan,

and house the Himalayan

marmot and ants

that dig for gold.
They are a national park

at the foot of eight thousander

mountains, the giant

ribs of God with names

like Everest and Makalu.
Bearded vultures whip

and splash like fleets

of kayaks in the sky,

piloted by Choctaw

shaman daughters

or sorcerers from Pyke.
One bird will gnaw

the blossoms and rest

at Jaisalmer, the city

where yellow foundations

rise like mountains

of powder and coal,

gnarled and broken

as the marrow

in an eaten bone.
But back to the plains

it goes in a week,

perching on viny terraces

where manioc and peaches grow,

wild and invasive,

thrumming in the brutal wind,

dancing in a horde.
The flowers, goats, birds

and ants and rats are conjoined

in purple tongues,

blades of summer grass

lifting in a requiem

and pentecostal glow.
They float over churches,

mosques and the stone turtle

at Karakorum range,

and for miles of Pakistan

until it is swallowed in the shore.