Monsoon

The wind at a midnight
Fuses night with sound
With a sleep sitting up
At the window’s ledge.

The fan belts the wind
To May heat of poems
Unrealized ,skies dead
To the potential cloud.

Come June,the hot hills
Will get up from stupor
Down at Indiamaps feet
And then hurl buckets

From the  vaporous sea.
The streets rattle with
The wind from the hills
And cry  their salt tears
From the distant seas.

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