[1] Dressed in a caul of half-sleep, He ventures into the lit courtyard Every morning, armed with a long handled broom Composed of bamboo, rushes, and rope, To sweep aside the leaves and twigs Freighted there by a night’s worth Of howling and gnashing of teeth.

He sweeps and sweeps, Day after day, year after year.

[2] The familiar dawdlers, other than the garcons, are all here. Some mouths are mouthing the read words. Some hands are fisting pens, etching paper with ink. All faces are pulling on their shadow-suitcases. And all eyes are filming over like the blind,

Even as you move from table to table Looking for a mirror in which you may recognize your own face.

[3] Clouds slat the horizon. Wind pries loose the last autumn leaves Persisting in their sappy hold. Rain sews up the sunset coal In its steel-grey shawl.

Am I what I am before?

Rain with its wet daub on the window Reminds him of the way memory tends To bleed into time while that old pain Stays stagnant like a mossy puddle.

Reminds him of that high room In which a lamp flickered against A rained out city horizon with its Sharp lines of steel buildings and Soft curves of church copulas, Then a grey wash of a failed painter.

Reminds him of that afternoon With its forgotten winter date, With its tight embrace of sleep, In which it was impossible to foresee This season of watery light that Now seems to stay constant even In the absence of rain’s blur.

Heart – that organ which bears a raft Of meanings beyond its cargo Of blood, bile, and hard cold facts–

Today sits in its rain-wet courtyard, Attired like a vain courtesan despite the arthritic feet, jowly jaws, Hair more white than black, Voice more croak than tuneful,

And foolishly hums snatches From ghazals (in Malhar no less!) As if it were performing again In the beloved’s chambers.