Everyday one wakes up, Runs a toothbrush over the teeth To and fro. Every day One eats two meals or three, If one can afford them, in between That freshly cleansed mouth. Some call this living, This, which others call wakefulness.

Thought meanwhile expands On the one that preceded it, And seldom becomes a cause For ecstasy. No matter, there are Other things more faithful, Two bellows beneath the ribs, A furnace concealed deeper, Which pumps red plasma, cyclically.

And those other hungers, Those keep one scurrying to satisfy. But no matter what is brought To the table, something keeps Slipping. Sometimes it is the salt, Sometimes the pepper, sometimes The meat is too raw. And sometimes One can’t find one’s own mouth!

No matter, tomorrow also Has a morning for all this…

You go away. You return. In between the face changes. People squint at you as if you Are a stranger, before the flame Of recognition ignites in their eyes.

The front door has a new color now, And the maze of alleys is noisier. You lose your way and arrive At the corner café and hear your Voice echoing in a language

That is now difficult for you
To speak. How to spell what you have Forgotten then? How will you explain Yourself to those who have waited For you then? Will your mask convey

Everything? Narrate all the passages You have endured? Detail all the places On your body where the skin has chafed Raw? Tell of the arthritic knee that has begun to grate on cold winter mornings?

No you can’t do that! You are hope! You have to return as the monsoons Return after a summer, bearing rain. Yes, be this even though you know The emptied clouds have to keep going On those trackless highways of no return!

2004:02:03, 21:00, Atlanta Eve of the first journey back to India after 3.5 years

From them I seek To learn how to absorb A single letter of the alphabet, Which will trail behind me, Whenever I glide on still water Or fly north south, along the winds.

[2] Fishing at the Lake

I am watching the still Surface of the lake, Waiting for a fish to rise.

Instead the dipping sun Brings up a gilded image Of an embrace and a kiss.

I look up and see a couple Under a stand of oaks, On the far shore.

[3] Travel without moving

Sunday morning, diagonals Of light across my desk, A steaming cup of coffee, Photographs of calligraphic Domes, gardens, carpets, ruins, And my tongue trying out The almost familiar rhythms Of Persian: Khoda hafez, Go with God. Goodbye.