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A horizon hides ships at sleep
Whose inmates are yet in bed,

Dreaming of warm embraces
At homes in a heaving horizon.

Vague butterfly boats are out
To trample on the fish dreams

Against men’s contrary views,
In sea slowly coming to shape.

We have only the fragment
While we catch up on time.

Sleep is a fragment of time,
A belly on four white pillars

The re-engineering marvel
From a dream to its reality

A construct by poem words
To impose wholes on parts

As each fragment is closure
Standing alone on meaning.

There are clouds at sea’s end
Like mountains at lake’s edge.

Clouds obliterate endless sea
That sailed away to Americas.

Between me and dark clouds
Are ships that flickered lights.

A lone star flickers after a sky
As if it is another ship’s light.

Lighted boats glide smoothly,
Their rattle heard as soft hum.

Horse shoe moon grows pale.
A gray sky slowly turns ochre.

Spikes catch city lungs
And eat oxygen inside.

Cities don’t show faces
With cloth hiding a sun

Sun wears cloudy mask
If in rain, upon the sea.

Cities are men, women,
So much dust, so much.

The crows were up in trees
And eagle made no sorties.

A cricket landed in balcony
As if it was mountain bush,

All night long sang its song
Undeterred by raging virus

In exaggerated importance.
We felt small in our sleeps.

At dawn ,a sky is original blue,
And not a cat of cloud missing.

Fish brag of life, a celebration
With no fears of being caught.

For a change, we humans now
Have fear of being caught live.

We search tide in men’s affairs,
Stretching the limit of the mind

God knows where comes from,
God may be rolling it inside out.

If it is winds that bring the tides,
God knows where wind begins.

After the massive tide in affairs,
God , there are no more affairs.

Pinch yourself hard on elbows
The mark of new dawn on you.

You are alive, at another dawn
And not yet a Corona statistic.

Make sure to wash the elbows
After pressing the lift buttons

You never know what virus lies
On buttons under your fingers.

Like dust at the foot of night bush
We like to live for ever on nothing .

Bush gets taken for bear by night .
We eat a little dew from a hanging

And some words from a bald bard
To give names to early airy things.

Airy nothing has a local habitation,
A night bush pretending to be bear.

Ripe poet’s hair is old and grey
What with a sundial hiccupping.

It shall get him ,sooner or later.
There shall be a reaping to do.

Where once a fountain spewed,
The leaves swirl around a stone.