On some days of the week
They come up with the lotuses
And greet the first rays of the sun
In all their fresh/flesh/flush pinkness.

Surfacing, as in a pointillist collage,
Speckling the grey-green temple-tank,
They float around like fish-food.
Bloated, just-born, just-dead babies.

In a tight-lipped, time-tested way,
The holy temple removes all traces
Of these floundering ones. Chlorinated,
The bathwater turns pure once more.