One street light still lit,
the dusty clock face ticks
eight o'clock in the morning.
One fly prays amidst
my bread crumbs as if
it is the epiphany, crack of ray
in this gloomy and cluttered day,
and on my table
beside the cup and the plate,
beside the drained coffee and
the deconstructed loaf
sits a now formatted laptop.
I wonder if some cache memories
remain etched in the eternity.
Clouds roll the clpds of early light
Everything, I feel, a bit clotted.
Even the breathing.
I ponder over the medical terms
for this ailment.
This is between
the drafts of my self-help book
'Gain Humour, Ease Into Dying'.
Wind reveals some new shades of red
on the branches.
This tree, so typically tropical,
wears red for the new birth
and red for the death.
The wires running by the Highway
slices the loaves of clouds.
Light is better today
When I drive I prefer silence.
Do not talk backseat.
Turn off the music.
And yet why does my childhood
sit behind the wheel?
Who are you in a red shirt
I drive past you, and you wave
as if passing is one wave,
one of many tiny triangles.
Not one marks the shore.
Tired light drives the planet.
The country song in another tongue drags me in, and I join, hoot and bray. I do not know what the song conveys. The evening rolls long, and although grey dominates it displays streaks of colours that remind you of your closed-door shivering; first mensuration stained underwear and your mother. Perhaps it is the song. Perhaps because you have heard me singing craps and singing happy never before. And then there flows the shining country liquor.
The odd hummingbird returns in that same evening – the first evening in the new town, house, year – inside your underwear.
Sometimes your man is not near He sits in another dark room amidst some packed and some unpacked boxes waiting by the window for the shadows finally learning to lasso in the entire mountain.
Miles apart, both the places shiver in cold.
The water, invisible and streaming, sirens me out of the reverie every early morning, and I step outside, my hands bracing, stand in the rented yard in this one month old town (for me) yawning and yearning to find the source rivulet, finding none as if the noise of the rill and the cacophony of its half smoothed pebbles tell the tales of an island hidden in my dazed consciousness. I have given up on the people failing to identify the din – even they can listen to it when they stand near me. No runnel runs here. Rain has not been a regularity in the town for the most part of the year for years and years. The trouble I bear, sometimes wonder if this is not my mother crying because I cannot and I need to be. I imagine, by the next week I shall learn to water-whisper, say, “Whoah. Calm down. I have all the dopamine you need.