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Body is the essence of night,
a falling of flower
A few particles of the night,
on way to dawn.
The red of a stem is feet up
a face down
Quietly buried in the earth
of dust, leaf-swept
By woman of park garbage,
to greater dusk.

The sill is there to break
abruptness
It is there as transit point
before fall.

It’s there to host rain-moths
that die
On the pane ,trying to
embrace light.

They make joke of her seeming
lying
In complete canine disinterest
in flies,
Her lack of tail for flying wind
of flies.

After her old friend stopped to
think
In an arm, she is such dogged
friend
Who gets a smile back to eyes.

Apollo lost his face but not
dark center
Where love flared for beauty.

While love was in the center
of body,
It has not a place that does
not love.

( reading Rilke’s beautiful poem The Archaic Torso of Apollo)

It is awkward to look away
from the tree
Birds have their old school
Polite manner.
The tree is polite to admit
its death.

When it comes to a death
everybody
Pretends and everybody is
too polite.
But wood-cutter’s ax is not
that polite.

It was a memento mori , a dusty
word,
We learnt in someone’s effort to
know
How to turn dust , in the church
monument.

As the dust of cow hoofs returns
home
Some basil leaves turn dust in a
mouth.

(Reference is to George Herbert’s poem Church monuments )

Adam’s apple goes down
a sigh.
He asks who is Descartes
and why.

He asks why I am not and
have a fly
In a flower and why sky is
so high.

The laburnum is in a yellow
bloom.
The street dogs are sleeping
under it.
Dogs have under a score of
years.

I have four or more to Bible
life,
My springs are less for more
blooms.

Baby cried to let no body know
in particular.
Rain fell on no particular balcony
awning.

Midnight’s poems had no theme
in particular
A dark night fell on no particular
trees.

From hammock, you saw butterfly
Fluttering like a leaf
in a free breeze.

Bronze butterfly would do nothing
Against black trunk,
except flutter.

Gentle breeze did nothing except
Blow gently against
the dark trunk.

You did nothing on the hammock
Except feel you have
wasted a life.

You sit in it below overarching sky
And see everyone’s
doing nothing.

At dusk like this ,even smelly turd
Will rise like golden
sun’s horse.

Feeling you have wasted your life
Is warm gold feeling
in twilight.

(On reading James Wright’s poem “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota”)