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 along 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 of red each summer with me
This evening could almost kill me and yet.
--
Anant Dhavale
(Kanher : Nerium Oleander)
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 along 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 of red each summer with me
This evening could almost kill me and yet.
Anant Dhavale
(Kanher : Nerium Oleander)
No comments:
Post a Comment