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Untitled
Beyond
the window, past the curtains, I can see morning.
And
I think of the years and the stratosphere
where
we floated as angels and appeared in Gretel’s dreams.
But
don’t you see? Our nirvanas have so little meaning
and
it should not be too easy to say, “Who are we anyway?”
when
even the forest deities are no longer breathing.
Salt
Waters
I
wonder when I stopped weeping
and
why?
Why
did I hate
the
taste of mucus in my mouth.
And
where did the shame of open sorrow
come
from when strong Achilles wept
and
Arjuna.
Will
anyone now watch water sparkle
at
Nau Dhara through tears.
Will
the smell of leaves
on
the hills remain flavored by
the
gentle odor of loneliness.
Will
anyone look upon the green color
of
the swimming pool with the same fear
or
be awed by its clear blue and the flaming ring.
No
one will feel again, I imagine, what I felt.
The
fears and the shame,
the
laughter and the rain.
Those
that traveled
to
Narayanghat
and
waited for their
plane
tickets
will
no longer cry
beneath
the cover of the night.
Not
even the tears
will
remain the same.
Not
even the tears
To
the Memory of Tom Playfair
It
is hard to picture
the
elephant stables with colorful bricks
turned
into an education factory.
But
it was neither heaven
nor
hell:
sort
of in between
where
you learned to live
and
read storybooks during
study
time.
Nothing
to actually preserve.
Thursday’s
beans
and
Elvis scampering
to
get to the dining hall first.
The
cold water of the mornings,
the
walks of Saturdays.
And
the fish, so many fish
flicking,
flicking, flicking
towards
death.
Tom
Playfair’s gone.
And
the Godavarians we were?
Even,
“Over my dead body,”
and
old Downing
are
buried well.
Perhaps
the flesh remains
or
bones and long hair.
Like
the Godavarians.
Boarders
and the Leaves
They
fell,
they
flew,
they
danced.
And
with the wind they fell.
Sometimes
we caught one
yet
our parents did not come.
Sometimes
we failed,
yet
they came.
And
like everything,
everything
made us cry,
whether
they came,
or
not.
The
dust devil spun,
the
leaves fell,
armed
with bamboo sticks
we
fought ourselves.
At
night everything,
everything
made us hide
our
faces underneath covers.
The
mornings came
and
we awoke.
We
rose groggily into the light.
We
walked, talked, and laughed.
And
everything,
everything
we dreamed
faded
away.
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