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

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

He 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.

An orange streak is in the sea
And fish fly
fresh in its depths

But the turtles are washed up
Dead as door knob
with virus.

The sea is alive & waves burst
With fish usual
frisking about.

Let sea blow its vaulted glory
With a beach
agog with men

Walking alive after new dawn
Along with
new sun and you.

A singing boy blinking eyes
in the rain, has pearly
Oyster shells announcing
a blindness with music.

His inventory is a repertoire
of heart rending songs.
Can’t keep inventory of stars
of the night sky,

Only what I pick in a weekly
bazaar and shop,
What numbers save for me
in far off cheese land.

The button is busy woman’s
lady fingers
Not appearing from coffee
not yet made,

Its magic not woven on shirt
of buttons.
The button is baby’s missing
tooth of laugh.

It is a missing son in the dark
of a room,
A missing dream in a crying
mom’s sleep,

A missing button from long
train journey
The missing shirt, with not a
missing button.

A boy friend has fly to be .
Swat on his snoring belly
And a mosquito up north.

Night endures unwashed
Due to underwhelming sleep
After a guest leaving last.

This is simple poetry note
And we avoid surrealism
Abjuring any/all/ violence.

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

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

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

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

Thumbing through old photographs
I think of an old woman by the river.

Wonder if a vintage is still unbroken.
I re-live a moment from the context

When we existed in joint river space
But all context is broken sometime.

On  a flexible curved neck , we are fluid
With a past history and current affairs

Quite collapsible in our affairs and views.
We have our backs to a winged chariot.

(references are to Andrew Marvel’s poem “To His coy mistress“)

Our gods lay in stony slumber in flowers.
As we had always dreamed of the North

Of rivers where bodies floated as stones
And burnt in acrid blue smoke on banks.

The waters would flow with the marigolds
As life unfolded each day on a new death.

When a little dark Krishna bewitches
From whichever side we see his eyes

He is perfectly rounded, hunched up,
Confusing why he will steal butter up.

Actually who wants to steal butter up.
It is a mouth open with clods of mud

Like   stars above our walking heads.
Now we are in state and bewildered.