the summer of the room

the summer of the room

One two--

A black deer with buckled shoes
Flies through the sunny window
To rest on the dusty ledge of
Pearls snowy brown encrusted on
Spiraling stairs, knocking the spider
Off its deep slumber.

Three four--

“Knock before you come in”
Growled the spider green
A flicker hissed and jumped
Brushing aside the leaf shadow
Was it the snake again, peeping out the crack
Slithering down from the 99 step ladder.


Five Six

Or Cross chasing, panting
After Naught in a labyrinth grid
Of Clever sticks picked up
From the woods in the middle
Of desert air streaming through
Cool passage walls of summer.

Seven Eight

The deer lies straight
In a glittering web of fleshy hands human
Its buckled shoe of brass smelling
Of freshly sprayed lemon
Minty ice and blackened cloth
That sweeps the pearls away.

Nine Ten

The tiny fists scribble again that
Betty bought some butter, but the butter was bitter
The flicker leaps now, and a quick brown fox jumps
Over the lazy dog snoring in
Cool passageways, and gobbled up
The summer of the room.

-Untitled-

No one bears witness

for the witnesses are

18 poets

who turn white sheets

and blank screens

into a languagemine

with 5000 words

that crawl across the globe

to watch the war

in Afghanistan

and then like stars shoot

to disembodied eyes

eyes of silent malls

where rats bleed

before turning left

into a crystal dumpster.

We REPLY-ied

to all of these

as puffs of breeze

seeded the words

spreading ink-

in a world

where only words

can claim-

footprints

Stitched and spun

with a giant yarn

this collaborative sock

may have holes.

But if you pull it

up you would know

that 18 minds

would not watch

grief do its work.

4 minutes

The song reminds me of you

Clear and distinct

Piercing my ears

A thread of tunes

Weaving through the city

The water, the fog on the hills

The tram, Indian movie and samosa.

The black and white tiles of the diner

“Steak,” I said and you had laughed.

I miss those evenings with you

On the gentle hills

The pleasant cold

The white walls

Of a stranger’s house

The cat we fed.

I don’t know what

I miss more.

The city

Or you.

Maybe both.

They were always together.

Hand in hand.

In memory.

I am afraid

For I forget

What you look like

Only sometimes

The song plays

In my head

Rushing sheet

Of white froth

Again and again

The same words

Loop till they sound

Tired.

And here I am

Again

Missing you.