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A new dawn begins mourning,
After a sadness of sun’s dying.

Loving ones wear their dresses.
There is a morning for all of us,

Including those once mourned.
We choose dresses accordingly.

The I.C.U. whispers its silences,
Its air hung high on prediction,

On breath held by plastic tubes.
Soon we will be busy mourning.

The living stay back in dresses,
So they can continue morning.

My signature has no curves,
Just angles ,alternative facts.

When no signatures remain,
My nights are full of dying.

My country has conscience
Alternative facts to reset to.

Flowers are floating, yet alive,
Flowers that float with bodies
Through the streets of people

They who are flowers bearing
The burden of a death to river
Not yet dead, yet with flowers.

A river not yet dead with men
Stays alive in sealed brass pot
To keep alive afterlife of dying.

(Varanasi is our city for life and death and after-life)

Since I came , stars have changed
A lot against the dark sky, behind

The well where the waters glisten
And rope and pail wait out night

Ready to bring up the fallen stars
Dropped by somewhat loose sky.

My fingers are tiny , not all pointy.
I forget where I stop and resume

And I have to do my home work,
Between and run down to home.

Bull nods enormous head
Laterally under a blue sky.

Its master’s future is sun.
Our coins shall be his sun.

That famished old parrot
Brings out a future’s card.

A bull is clothed and fed.
A parrot is caged and fed

Their own beastly futures
Are words shining in sun.

Sky goes blue with words.
A sky bristles with future.

It seems there is no single integral way
Of grappling with the world , in nights

Of darkness hid in trees after the silent
Efforts in a day of making green stuff

A green stuff in leaves of yellow light.
Another leaf is my own life’s fragment.

I am leaf to be removed from a winter.
Like this man severed from leafy past

Now earth and water, in the sea of sky
A broken event from winters of a past.

Evening sky blue bloated on the sea,
Even as the sky floated on the water.

A boy would ask, uncle, you walking?
He was bloating with a form’s smile.

There is too much water in sea now:
Sea bloated with his understanding.

Boy is searching form in sea content,
And I search for content in sea form.

There is not even white moon in sky
With more content than form in sea.

Boats are a form on the bloat of sea.
They dance, up and down, on bloat.

The sea’s stomach has more content
Than a boy’s smile can comprehend.

The seasons are tired of an old body
With new sugar and an old salt to it

And yet old body writes new poem
As if a body has time for all seasons.

(reading Yehuda Amichai’s poem “A Man Doesn’t Have Time In His Life”)

Not bus that takes you places
With a ticket in online window

But bus for worlds last journey
As Lord God lectures on body

Which is like clothes changing
& you only have dress change.

There is a red bus and a yellow
The children wait for in drizzle.

Yellow bus arrives with a buzz
But a red one drives in silence.

A yellow bus carries the future.
Red brings past to conclusion.

Write chunks of white poetry on black night.
Your poetry may be of your narcissistic self

Morbidly touching the way pipal tree waves
In the darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep

Below basement, between pictures of gods.
Poetry is confessional, with redness in face

Looking into crevices to let things not sleep.
And sleep alone will deliver up a confession

As you turn to your side to face a blank wall
Where beginning & middle are not pictured

And the end turns out to be a breath, a lack,
An endless dark wall stretching to empty sky.