Cream biscuits. Butter.
A rusting toaster. Late afternoon.

4.15 pm, the light slants
into a crowded room
smelling of sleeping books.
Steam touches
a trembling forearm. White

felt by the ceiling fan. Tobaccco.
An overused pipe. A fluttering flame.
Within you, seventy years
of old bad habits. A dead son,
an estranged daughter
bits and pieces of friends
some finished and some almost there
like biscuits. Breaking.
Vanishing carefully. Apart from that
Sixty years
of unfinished poetry
waiting to see an end


Sarod. Winter morning.
A quiet farm of millet and breezes. Linen
with soiled creases.
A village with ancient excuses.

Practice. Afternoon.
A moment of silence dots
the river of time. Plucked
by an unwavering note
floating over a bed of rhythms.

There in the corner, besides
all the figurines and rice sacks
we sat sagely watching
a composition ripen, the end
mingling with the distant calls
of winds conquering farms of millet.

Winter, 2013

that which came along with the winter
the cold breezes, thick linen
the swarm of cats on the main door
the thawing of leaves at each sunrise
the clouds blanketing the sacred grove
the streams of your hair over the bedsheet
young moist fingers
skimming one another at dawn
the whistle of thrushes

and there in the unperturbed distance
murders of crows dotting colonial rooftops
the hoofprints of mules
the scraped grass alongside the road
from here we witnessed the end of calmness
the blanket of clouds dissolving at sunbreak
a city of graves appearing in frozen bits
melting slowly under the circling griffons

leafless trees reaching out to windows
the texture of your arm against my jacket
and the monochrome photograph
of a missing friend
who we felt we found on every corner