Remember how we rode bicycles down Hijili Road swept by rain? It is that monsoon season again, when green things take wing. So in this delayed (only by a decade) letter I shall account for gain And loss again. Into which column falls your absence, or this thing: Emptiness felt as pain? Rain’s eyelets form and dissolve on the panes. Beyond lay the obscured years, and an anorak-ed postman who is seeking Me – another man without an address – somewhere in these foreign lanes. Did you finally write me that letter which will remind me of us talking All night? Or remind me of how you ached for atom’s laws, and I ached
For the asymptotic transcendence of words as trains snaked underneath
The copulas of fireflies, of stars? Postman waves, vanishes. Breached Years clearly won’t allow you rush in, excited, your head beneath A wet newspaper to tell me what new quarky dimension you have seen. Nor can I make you hear these horrid descants down which I have been.