Save Her If You Can
Dream knocks on the wood, shouts,
"I need your help." I see her burning,
albeit years have passed since that night.
I shut the door, wake up, sit on the bed,
tiptoe on the molten bones of the cold
toward the washbasin, and whisper
in the ear of the water, "Let this dream
have your body and lose itself in the sea."
When I hear the rap again I think it
is the second level of the dream,
one bubble in another, but it is a bird
crashing against the glass. Outside,
one homeless man envelopes his figure
in his contorted face and stares at
my window, lit, trapped between
the dream of warmth and realising it a dream.
I hear the noise again in the bedroom and turn.
The Marks of The Lies
Never leave spilled water on a surface.
My mother used to fuss about It's marks
and stains, "Those spread like lies."
I wipe a lie with my old trouser legs.
It still remains in abstracts.
I ring you. The noise of silence
circles itself pivoting our ceiling fans.
Those Defunct Summer Houses
When the Summer arrives
every rickety building with
hoardings of discontinued products
and defunct concerns becomes mine.
The dead leaves resurge.
I own red bricks and a bed
that sails at night, deep,
toward the bay of monsoon
through the crisscross roads,
through the vortex of potholes.
The App Cab
The driver of the app cab asks,
"Did you get in?" I do not know.
Is settling on the backseat inside enough?
A code that I should share
must have been flown in, albeit my phone
begins a long process of restarting itself
as if it too needs a moment
outside the realm of inside and out,
between the waiting to leave
my sister's place and actually leaving
her dementia behind.
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