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Phone rings and takes us far
While a woman goes inward

On lowly rock faced with sun
Too large for her closed eyes

To contain in their blue irises
Too small for sea to embrace.

A snail gets attention nugget
Inside a little hole below walk.

Feet obtain nugget with sand
Stuck inside the shoe’s lining.

All things get a nugget or two
Including crow on sea’s edge.

The fish ,inside their struggles,
Get no attention in a horizon,

Except by imagining &they are
Probably wiggling for a breath

In helpless net in the high sea.
The word high gets its nugget.

Opposite word ‘ low’ springs up
For attention in the snail’s hole.

If a snail knows the feet coming
Which premonition is question,

Distracting the mind’s attention
Leaving a moss of beauty in sky.

Distraction brings a beauty loss
As if its loss is a gain of lexicon.

Beauty is lost in the trivial game
And all you gain is word’s usage.

Some words loosely fall away into the daylight.
The day soon changes to misshapen evening

Awaiting its night, beyond light, of black sleep.
A night will be round in shape, curtains drawn.

My train will lose its shape in a curve of its line.
The line will lose shape as a train cuts it in two

Turning two lines, two shapes, two phone lines.
The birds on phone lines will run up and down

Losing shapes every now and then triangularly.
The world itself loses its shape,in dark of sleep.

We felt drowsy, in that shop.
What lousy blouses they were.
We went busy in blouse shop

Wasting a sun choosing blouse
But not to say, we grew afraid.
Tired we were through the sun

Just to say we missed the sea
We missed sun’s slow- falling
The crow waiting for its crumb.

Just not to say we were afraid.
Blouse was a color of mustard
That reminded death in blouse.

Your inside makes my mind sharp.
Your outside is a partly bird eaten.

Now ,you are maroon and fibrous
And tiny stones floating in the sun.

Almond , almond , why do you fall
When birds have stomach cramps?

Almond, almond, why are you light
When there are no more painters?

Almond,almond is there God’s son
In Mandorla light ,almond shaped?
.
Are minds almond sharp over milk
When a moon is partly bird eaten.

Horses let us sit on the backs kindly
But they do not laugh loud in snows.

We hold onto their backs for our life.
They take us ,where we hurl snows.

On bridge we met a dog on pantleg.
But we were afraid for a bone in leg .

We shooed him off in superior fright
And the old bridge shook in laughter.

Rain will disappear to remain a
memory
A picture frame on top of glass
shelf.

A place will translate as music
record
Or as smell of a disinfectant or
the feet

Shuffling in soft layers of earth
-air
A levitating ghost without feet,
only tail .

Ghost is merely illustration for
children.
The magazines sell kings and
ghosts.

All forest’s animals are talking
morals.
We turn into ghosts with ghost
memories

Places are ghosts in the night’s
quietude.
Places are ghosts that turn into
loose dust.

Those have descended from the
far off alien skies,
Their wings light and flapping to
keep them alive.

A child’s stick brings them down
one at a time.
He had nothing against them who
were our guests

Locusts from the Siberian plains
into our bushes
Who had brought their memories,
their thoughts.

They had brought their memories
of green leaves
At other places and other thoughts,
other skies.

Long are the walks,in mornings and evenings,
Some mental walks, hearty walks, city walks.

They are walks, talk walks, like talk going on
In waking limbs, body thinking under a spell.

Body merely thinks in its mind which walks
Like a hundred-footed worm or goods train

Of a hundred steel boxes on unending track.
The mountains walk unendingly to a horizon

And the horizon walks unendingly to the sky.
Words walk, the spirit walks, our hands go up

In the night air in a vertical sky breaking walk.
Chilly fields walk and up down with the train.

A blue bird goes up and down on phone wires
And bridge noisily walks away from the train.

We try to re-live our mom’s
Memory over this very tree

Bending solicitously toward
The neighbour’s house wall.

It favours him by a richness
Of sap and fullness of fruit

So green& it will turn yellow
Or end up as pickle on table

By when a cuckoo shall tire
Of calling down rain from sky.

Back where she took to sky
She is a tree now full grown

With ripe mangoes dripping
Like rain ,on soil freshly laid

For her to take roots and fly,
Held by the earth and its sky.

I believe and belief stopped
As she was a river from boat

And the quickly flowing boat
Did not allow us to look back

And find her in river’s eddies.
So I believe she is now firmly

Rooted to the earth’s eddies
Where roots plummet deeper

And deeper as memories fade
And then we are trees like her.

That afternoon the dream of the toads
rang through the elms by Little River
and affected the thoughts of men,
though they were not conscious that
they heard it.–Henry Thoreau

It seemed the toad lusted after other toad
Though there was no Saturday night’s fever.

All through night there was rain on the bog.
And the bog felt all too important that night.

I am bog and who are you? Bog greets toad
Who was getting busy on top of other toad.