No recompense for the thousand shards of self
What about this smothering cloud
What of the travails of a long journey
Buzzards one and two, high they used to fly. I noticed them
Frequently on my long wind-bitter winter walks
A whimsy with its own color and smell
I did not see them among the decaying heights of New York
None. Drifters, yes, hordes of them, fellows stranded on the artistic bends
Quiet and turbulent souls on late-night homeward trains
No respite from living, from breathing the continuum
Veins are freed from the weather’s wrath but storms
Always always on the way back, a clockwork of the absurd
The Kanher loses a shade or red each summer with me
Such poison, such gloom, this evening could almost kill me and yet.
Anant Dhavale
(Kanher : Nerium Oleander)
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