Splash into one another as their pails Rattle and shake in my bone-house. Sometimes memory takes me to distant Adrienne, with her taste for grandeur, And sometimes to Radhika, who stands Close by, whispering something tender, Even though sometimes I get confused, And wonder who is who, and what Color is whose banner. Neither are, And are, because these word fragments Shaped into markers of longing for each

Abound. But sometimes when I open My ancient notebooks to read A foreign tongue with a foreign tongue (It changes as the mouths it kisses change) - From their shape they appear like - Few words, lot of empty space at the margins - Not very different from those nights When trees try to invade with their trashing Shadows, and fingers trace a vanished shape, Marginal, her(I can't give her a name) Throat in full laughter perhaps - the poem That had no memoirst at hand to record.