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.


About nisheedhi

Retired banker with poetry and photography as chief interests
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