When Gandhi
first (and last)
ate meat,
he vomited
by a river.
Repented.

I dreamed of half-remembered roads
and the cadences of another language
swaying and gliding like the movement
of a metro car in the dark between stations.

I wake expecting the smell of bread
in narrow city streets
and the cries of merchants
in morning sunlight.

Instead there are hills
upon hills and mountains
standing silent and cold
as we flow through highway curves.
I start at the sounds of English
and Hollywood television,
at the way the colors – the greens,
browns, and grays of the mountains –
are different here,
a shade barely noticeable
that even now begins to fade.