Grief

The pill wakes you to orange sleep in fetal positions of a sleep-dance. Here you quickly freeze your eyes that turn glacial waiting for a sun to fashion their river to a down sea.

Grief turns icicles on the eyelashes when phone comes near the stairs. They will really scintillate to a rising sun after a night of stars moves away from pointing to clenched fingers.

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Moon-face

Moon-like he would smile comfort to those around him, his moon face spreading a shine of inner happiness as if he had just returned from a spa. In oil for life, he had five -karma sweeping the lunar craters of his face.

There was the oil of happiness oozing in slow and softly measured tones, sounding like the milk of human kindness as we would meet India’s milkman, who is now living on the milky way.

Moon-face had solved India’s trade imbalance by shipping gold for fistfuls of millions.

He had sent me to a fragrant harbor, in his lunar smile on the nineteenth floor. The moon face smiled for everyone, its joy of life , a sliver of moonshine.

His moon is dead ,long live its smile . Until our own moon shines and after.

(homage to a senior colleague who passed yesterday)

Evidence

I cannot go back to sleep for the lack of evidence.The world is alive in a dog’s bark tonight. A Dawkins daughter-to letter is evidence of a lack of evidence for not sleeping.

A buzzing mosquito is material evidence of its aliveness and my wakefulness.The dog’s bark is a collateral evidence.

These tidbits-they add up to the lack of girl. This my typing is evidence the girl is dead and flying as a thing to embrace her fires amid a thousand candles that had walked ,a sorrow enacted, a mime staged in the dark.

Evidence

I cannot go back to sleep for the lack of evidence.The world is alive in a dog’s bark tonight. A Dawkins daughter-to letter is evidence of a lack of evidence for not sleeping.

A buzzing mosquito is material evidence of its aliveness and my wakefulness.The dog’s bark is a collateral evidence.

These tidbits-they add up to the lack of girl. This my typing is evidence the girl is dead and flying as a thing to embrace her fires amid a thousand candles that had walked ,a sorrow enacted, a mime staged in the dark.

Ghost writer

One does not have noon dreams , only day mares, belly fish of fears wrought into heavy-lidded sleep, mares ,not being equine animals of diurnal type but the belly ones where you enact fearful plot lines.

A Caucasian doctor from anywhere appears by your side to diagnose an unnoticed fleshly protuberance ,on the neck, way to a two year death.

Story is scripted by a ghost writer of a random ghoulish department. Everything is so random but stitched neatly together like by a pro hack, a belly fear knotted to a taut plot.

Bough

Houseman lives on in a bough. Boughs live in trees of the sky. The sky lives to hang in and hail from whence we will fare aye. We long for our trees to stand not move away to the electric sky or partake of its angry thunder to stand without leaf in bough.

Houseman ,we made a house but we lost our tree in bough, a balcony of hanging to a tree, for a view of the milkman below. Whenever we made our house we would lose our mountains. We would lose sun in its trees to the emptiest of sky whence we all fare.

( referring to A.E.Houseman’s beautiful poem Give me my land of boughs...)

Distance

With a distance of time ,what had looked white would turn vague and gray by growing years- our wading knee-deep muddy rain waters in the streets by white walls missing in places,the men who tucked white lungis in the waists,the coins that felt round to fingers in pockets, the rivers dancing round heads of mountains.

The walls stretched interminably to a white sky ,hiding bush and snakes in them gently rising, feet shuffling to rustling sounds of dry leaves. The squirrels had built bridges for man-gods and earned three dark stripes on their backs. Strange birds sang in the sky deaths of lives.

With more distance of time our eyes slowly fell and the body hurried past closing our spaces. The distances are now small, the skyline close.