The closet

Subtle like drizzle,
Catchers on rainbows
Where dreams fly under

Shining in a closet
A stone
Golden with age

the sky
grey!
as a pant


i assumed the cow
to be a farmer & asked
for directions

The time is right

Drinking to tomorrow,
Yesterday in a spoon
left in a corner

What are those yellow flowers called?

Mexican Oleanders   are nodding
to the wind patrol   all
four of them   the wind smells
empty taxis. The birth of an extra car at the end
is the denomination of a loss of breath every
day.
(atleast life is always winning
outside drugstore windows.)
  The shafts of light on every street
have been persecuted
by the dust.

It has issued pores on their surface.

These shafts are set into
motion by men in majestic blue suits
who are sweeping the streets clear of daylight.

I lost my privilege
to participate
to a crow who is now
crossing the river (Yamuna) without
getting wet.

Poem

Thinking your summer
knees in the shade
of a tree which fractured
its elbow last night
 when  the storm came rolling in
. .  i am seeking somebody
skilled in his trade           like priests
              a woman perhaps
          who can
rearrange me into shelves
so that when i am the top
i can negotiate time
with pigeons sleeping in the garrets (at four)

Outside the rain
is making an eyebrow
on* the faint road
it certainly
is
yours.

A tractor is making
sections of this road
fertile.
That is where I anchor
my lies and by evening
     i have grown a pasture
to rest with your cows

*of

Talking to elms

Walking by the trees
the necklace of the sky
glitters like windows
with shocked eyes

the water in puddles
lies dead like sleep
somewhere nearby,
a dream shivers quietly

The wolves in his lines

Over red clay
a writer fumbles
his words,
rich they seem
like the rain in his lap
shouting at mountains
the wolves in his hands