From  the midnight onward  would be  a whistle,  an absence of  insects for rain,  a Himalayan stick tapping an earth that yielded a bizarre sound. We therefore tried all sorts of poetry that made sense but sense made no poetry. We broke sense from a felt cap or a fez cap loosely falling like hair. We then mixed it in light stolen from rain moths hitting the glass.The glass  would embrace them in death.There were no pots with water leaking behind in thin streams.No rivers and no boats.Insects generally died  anonymous deaths on the glass.

The whistle fell on the ears.The ears were sleeping near the eyes. The eyes wept for company. We sacrificed life forms for beauty. Goats that stretched luxuriously  dead on strings.Chickens that waited to die outside the “meal ready” sign board.They all loved their deaths.We loved their life.The whistle chased the stick.The stick beat the earth for stories.The stories that always began with deaths and ended in births that would cleverly dodge the basic issues of marriage and embracing Buddhism . Buddhism of turning stone. Stone that had pleats of cloth on its torso , a petrified smile for the city, a city that forgot to sleep .


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