POETRY

The pen slithers and then clings to the words
that evaporate,
leaving me with the loose ends of a cobweb
gaping,like a spider
who hangs by the thread,and waits
for the wind to blow him across.
I wish the wind blew five-and-a-half degrees
south of east
and then tilted half-a-degree north-west
midway in the flight and then...
I wish I were a dog.
Or,
that I could smile
without puncturing the silence,or,
that the blue smoke,
blue like aftershave and distance
would mush up a closeness that didn't rustle,
knit up a quiet that didn't talk...
or better still,
the wind could tilt north north-west
south half....
 

GUILT

"What's the time?"

"How does it matter?"

Night sat
on the leaves.
The train was trying to catch up
with the lost hours.
She patted the fluffy undulations,
raising her chin when a sleepy toe touched
the wrinkled flesh.
"Are you awake?"
"Do you remember?" She asked
reaching for her bottle of medicine.

Deep in the tree a white serpent wriggled
and chained a dozing sparrow,
before melting into the mist.

The bird pulled out its beak
and charged into the feather with a fury
that was satisfying.
Then it blinked its eyes
over a hint of glow, behind the leaves,
and in utter incomprehension
bordering on indifference, fell asleep.

There stood a demon below,
stooping, raking the fire.
It glittered in his eyes just above the window-sill.

"Aren't you awake,
don't you remember?!"
She raised herself and asked.