From a Tourist Journal.(Poem)

 
FROM A TOURIST JOURNAL 
 
   In a precinct of liver stone, high 
   on its dais, the Taj seems bloc hail. 
 
   We came to Agra over honking roads 
   being built under us, past baby wheat 
   and undoomed beasts and walking people. 
   Lorries shouldered white marble loads. 
 
   Glamour of ads demeaned street life 
   in the city; many buildings were 
   held aloft with liverwurst mortar. 
   I have not left the Taj Mahal. 
 
   Camels were lozenge-clipped like rug pile 
   and workhorses had kept their stallionhood 
   even in town, around the Taj wall. 
   Anglos deny theirs all Bollywood. 
 
   ...