New paint

The way home; as the footprints taper
I see yesterday’s footprints
have collected rainwater

An argument
stitched together in pauses
and a flickering lampshade
all that remains is hate

The damp walls-
the smell of rotting paint
with every breath
sweats into me
a strange intoxicant
I am home again

Energetic sleep–
an errant twig scratching
the broken moonlight-etched window

I wish I dreamt
of an old photo, us
in an blur of star shine

Early Rains

My shadow the only shade;

I run home to open windows.

A crow laughs over seven lanes

And flies seven streets,

A hand through my hair!- it’s just breeze.

The airs cool when the lane dips,

And soft rain drips glass buttons.

At The Match

Above the filling clusters of people,

fluttered moths and insects of night

in the revealing rays of stadium light,

who care not for the flight of beetles

when echoed growls follow the rite

and crackles of colored light,

while monsoon brought no evils

only drizzle colored grey against night.