Sea erases suns from dusk
And on the holes of snails.

It erases a moon and a sun
On the sky onto the clouds.

It erases horizon near ship.
It erases ships in high seas.

It erases earth’s memories.
It erases minds in the men.

The sea erases all our love
Along with the attachments.

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Crowd shouts like crows
At dawn, to wake up sea.

Sea in turn wakes snails
Bleary in their eye holes.

They come out and make
Tiny holes in sea’s waves

When snails turn crowds
Their holes are drowned.

Snail-holes are drowned
After crows need snails.

Sea needs no snail holes.
It is entirely need-based.

The crowd is need-based.
They are poem’s images.

Crows drown in the sun
After sea needs no crows.

Images crowd out a sea
As a mind walks in self.

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Rain is coming

The sky-strata grow wider for the asking.
You ask if you desire to be the shepherd

In mountains to negotiate endless spaces.
Your flock has endless feet for counting.

You know you want to stop conversation.
The weather is sun hid in backyard tree.

Its rain is deep in hiding in the beach sea.
Its clouds are a nightly television thunder.

Moon has temporary circles like tired eyes.
They tell you that rain is coming anytime.

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Cricket stories

Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words

Upon bare feet to earth, cracked
Like mind in a nothing’s duress.

The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words.

They are our words like worms
Under long lying stones in sun.

They are crickets crying under
Vague stones lying in the grass.

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Small arguments

These flowers are small  arguments
Ending up somewhere, on sidewalk

To smell anonymously from baskets.
The arguments start in small hours.

Bees might have flirted with them,
In small arguments by themselves

When they were still on branches,
Only to disappear in the bigger sky.

Just the case with small arguments.
Like one day moth on a window-sill,

A small argument against a big rain
About tantalizing light in our room.

We are  somewhat bigger argument
Under a magnificent solipsistic sun.

Ours shall go poof in the same way
And by the same earth and its dust.

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Now now I am just tree
Rooted in a plastic pot

And angels do not call
Balcony after nightfall.

I am a tree in balcony
Not crossed a parapet

To all that dizzy space.
I am rooted in a plastic

And angels do not call
Balcony after nightfall.

(Taking off on Rilke’s poem Annunciation(1))

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Kekule’s benzene dream

I too dreamed snake ate snake
But it was green snakes in rain
Falling from the hibiscus head.

Everything was snake in hoop.
It would come in a boy dream
But no benzene imagined ring.

All that took place in his sleep
Was snakes falling from a tree
Like flowers loosened by rain.

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