She clung to her pillow
starring at the clock head.
It was three past after
when she should have been in bed. 
Counting down the hours, 
counting up the seconds 
until it all sunk in. 
On the wall hangs a picture of them
two months earlier dreaming
of what might have been.
Thinking now about what could have,
knowing that it shold have 
all been
yours. 
She couldn't breathe
suffocating without him
because he had to leave. 
Praying out loud,
cussing in her head
wishing he would come back,

My town nicknamed, ‘Mini Dubai’, burgeoned and branched on the bank of Kanoli canal like a tamarind seed. Now the silvered canal sprawls on its death bed. Busy pedestrians walk down an ancient bridge built by the British. As the traffic light has lost its eye balls, a potbellied policeman dances and controls. Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz. A long whistle: an ambulance with the wounded and a van with the wedding party halt side by side as the southern and northern hemispheres of emotions meet at a single point. Nostalgic smell of the canal sops in the sizzling tang from a cafeteria

Slack Traffic

This is the slackest traffic I have been in.
And yet I’m fairly confident I’m winning
the battle between ecstasy and languor,
the deathmatch between sanity and anger.
I drive so slowly, I could fall asleep
but, gazing at a Shangri-La of sheep
grazing tranquilly across the street
is good as savoring a frozen treat.
Though tentacles of heat from every car
try murdering my mood, the finches are
so free and high above this hellish jam,
I’ve almost lost the sense of where I am —
some planet parallel to this old sphere,

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The hovercraft loomed,

A silent sentinel watching

I stopped listening to music the same way
I could only find sadness in songs
Even in the happy ones.
It had been this way about 2 years
Then one day
You took my hand
I used to love being alone.
I used to take care of everything on my own.
 
Things were great.
Things were good.
 
I used to love being in my room
Watching a movie
Listening to a song
And sing along
 
Things were great.
Things were good.
 
In my darkest moments
I would crawl in my bed
Listening to music
And expect nothing

With volumes of Proust
and a French-English dictionary,
I climb five flights
of winding colimaçon stairs
to my new-old Paris rental:
yet even at the edge
of the tent of the sky,
my baby brother
is still
dead.

Through the attic skylight
I raise myself onto the roof
from the waist up
like a jack-in-the box,
catching scraps of rock music,
roar of the Metro,
vintage apartment buildings,
shimmering Seine,
Eiffel Tower like a
cake ornament.

Deisel fuel in the air
as I explore Père Lâchais Cemetary