Unending rains, the hills are green all over. In my balcony, the champa is soaked in fragrance, her edges frayed.
I dread the monsoon slush— my each step grounded in the grip of my flip-flops. Even more, I dread to be on roads that run past me . . .
I’m housebound I am. Period
Just for a while, the caged mind begins to rake up pleasant memories, then stealthily steps on those sunken ruts. Headlong I'm thrown into the unfathomable depths of old hurts and wounds,
and then those soothing licks that heal, sort of . . .
the talking-inward poet weaves in and out of breath
afterglow . . .
old basement clock
strikes the hour again