Cranberry sauce stains the wide spikes
Of the sky–calming the tides scuttling
Away with wild timberland boots
On corroded metal materials across
Lengthy aisles. I see it, the grey bedsheets
Overlaid on the blue iris of a foyer—a foyer
So broad, it looks like apollo's colossus
Moulded into damp paper-boats heaved
On dirtbags of blinking water, peddling
On injured asphalt roads—the forked
Road-splinters ajar like my wrinkles,
Glancing at the vessels formed on my
Cheekbones, hinting age.
I ask it, my vocal cords multiplying each
Sound with another, I ask it always about
Monsoon, about when, will monsoon
Rinse the summer sins planted like basil
Seeds on my chafed, ruby lips. I ask it
Why is monsoon gone, why does it not
Come wash the satchel slung across
The ventilators of my partitioning eyes?
I am hushed.
Oh, but then–
The bruised white clouds gather on
The wharf of the sky, slowly skiing on
Crisp icebergs of ignited stars, blanketing
Them one by one. The stars–they smile,
Accept defeat, and stash themselves
Behind the grey pigments stamped
On the river like prints of the sky.
The plants gently start to tremble,
Like my father's camel-hat exposed to
Nude winds and, abruptly, a summer-hot
Leaf quivers on the barren peninsulas
Of a sepia-silk curtain, apparently
Moistened, gesturing a breath-like
Rustle of coarse-lobed fronds of
A bracken, remotely placed at the
Center of my shoulder's plaza.
Is it going to rain?
The summer alleys are evaporating;
Carrying moths stationed on slabs
Of an unhurried rain—patiently, instead,
Hurtling one droplet after another.
My eyes sway upward, glimpsing at
The petals of raindrops slowly kissing
The onside of my moss-pit face.
I am happy—the clouds, like a choir,
Brush my hair, my arms, my eyelashes.
Rinsing each stem of my body, one by one.
I look away, and I watch
Crease a smile at me.