These white flowers shall garden my window now.
My clothes shall smell of wilted flowers in pocket.
I shall keep fears on hold, this side of the window
Under a table light that reads nice smelling words
Remembering parijat flowers waiting on the earth,
Their faces down , feet duly up, at the crack of dawn.
In a sky, like preternatural birds ,
Lay soft white clouds, full of rain
Drops for red roses by a lakeside
Lying in wait for somebody ‘s car
Boot to pick up so as to lie in wait
With the wet clothes on balconies.
The white clouds are wet clothes
Hung by the sky -gods for drying.
As they drip-drop they turn rain
Drops on lake roses lying in wait
For a car to pick up, to lie in wait
On balconies with drying clothes.
Meanwhile , soft white clouds will
Turn temporary cat’s eyes peering
Down into our camera’s pure view
To lie in wait permanently in eyes.
the wind at midnight fuses night
with sound and a sleep sitting up
at window ledge in night’s apron
the fan belts a wind to May heat
of poems unrealized ,skies dead
to their potential cloud and rain
come June , the hills will get up
from stupor down at map’s feet
to hurl buckets from sea’s vapor
the streets will rattle with wind
from the hills and cry its saltless
tears arrived from a distant sea.
When we were asleep it rained
On the streets like fine sawdust.
The passing cars have sneezed
Grease bubbles in rain puddles.
Feet in rolled trousers take care
You don’t tread on our rainbows.
They are wistful and fragmentary
Besides somewhat hallucinatory.
As you walk, trousers rolled up,
Step on the stones and hop skip
As stones shake with indecision
And let the swirls be your guide .
We had no doubts about the lovebirds
As they preened their feathers together.
Did pigeons have doubts as they cooed ?
The window-sill has room for gutar gu
With sounds of bird feet on the awning .
Now birds cooed with doubts in throat.
With doubts in throat they can’t dance
Their joint feet on the hot awning sheet.
Their joint preenings are now doubtful.
We love the sun in the mountains
Being hyper allergic to afternoons.
We pray to him below mustache.
We get copper coins on our skins,
Emblems that are his tiny tattoos
We are hyper to , he is ultra about.
His morning light is soft delight.
His mountain gold is poet’s love.
But adult one gets a little rough.
We pray to him to turn old soon
And die quickly in the mountains,
So he is born and stays that way.
A year’s first rains would force out
The red velvet mites from the earth.
We loved to feel their velvety backs
With our kid fingers and keep some
In finely labelled match box houses.
We tried to side-step velvet hordes
In their procession to the mountains
But we would not know how many
We squished under inadvertent feet.
The little guys made no dying noises
Their velvet soon turning mud rags.
A day this way or that seems to make
No difference to essential transience.