If it dies once, don’t worry. It will come back again. 

The pain has many places to go to. Lose your 

cigarette. It will come back anyway as a cover for a 

past in the future. The walls will become windows and, 

then, holes. A rat might scurry in and make a family of 

four. Don’t worry. Your job is to grow big (metaphorically). 

I see all those cars on the street as though the world 

is ending. That may be true and I can, maybe, stop it 

with a swipe of my large finger. But happiness is a silly  

compass for distraction. And you’re an agate in a cave. 

 

A spoke poked out of my face this 

evening, 

               grey, uninvited, below the tip of 

               my nose.  

               The coat hanger swayed as if 

               drunk and lonely.

               I grieved from afar, a youth 

               surrendered, black box sinking in 

               the sea. 

The greens of the tree 

merge with the browns 

of my skin, a concatenation 

of uproars and uploads 

that turbos the cursor 

while hovering over 

a grant. 

I offer peace in a handshake. The 

image is brushed off with a sulk. I slip 

back into the kitchen and emerge with 

a Channapatna bowl. 

He cares, then, a little, leaves the dark 

down, and takes it in wildly, wildly, 

showing his teeth and appreciation, and, 

finally, when satisfied, lets out a whistle. 

There’s that, among other things, he 

lives for. A toy buccaneer to rescue him from 

sudden falls at night, a ghazal during 

the golden hour for me. 

On a holiday, on television, a body in the river, 

or a run around the stairs made of limestone 

for us. No body horror. 

Drumbeaters crawl up my back & the 

needles from the clock strike me. I put 

my yearbook in a macchiato to sail 

away, but the weather doesn't favor me. 

The itch in my throat grows red. I'm hot, 

too, however, not in a sexy way. Look 

at me, I'm out-out, complaining like a 

retired government official. What else 

can I do when I have a tin can for a nose?