[1]

He picks and secrets in his coat pocket four wine maple leaves. And when he arrives, he places them on his desk; glowing embers against dipping mercury and the drip of night’s hourglass.

[2]

Her body sways in a night club, a wire Twanging in the gusts. (of alcohol? Of li-n-es He is glibly feeding her?) Later everything Would be lost and found, when he peels open Her folds and tastes his rancid need.

[3]

He juggles and draws, from a bag of things Given and accepted, this time, a green notebook. From it a silver palm print pressed on a sheet of black paper fall out. The pages thus emptied, are again his to populate.

[4]

Her angular face is a sandstone brise-soleil to which he eagerly ties his talismans, poems, prayer flags. But if he leans forward to kiss her, Time will became opaque. He must Remember this important rule:

“Muses, as other pedestal-ed things, need to be observed from a (safe?) distance”

I am feeding from the trough filled with books of poems, at sundown.

They are all here. My carbs, my protiens, my vitamins, my nurses, male and female.

I am yet to decide who will be my girlfriend. Some of these girls are - god -

damn crazy! I love them all! Their tongues drip sweet, sour and bitter

over mine. And the boys? The rascal gods keep grinning. Everything else? - Just breath.

Even stars. Even tears. I breathe what they breathe. My whole being resides here

Hunched over this stack. Our spines, now shot with sun, are pulsing!

A crow is cawing here.

When her cry, in the same pitch Used to reach us from the street We used to stream out to see her, Arms held akimbo over her head Bearing a basket of live mercury, Calling to mother, “Sepalu, amma, Sepalu”, “Fish, mother, fish!”

Amma, I am cawing for your fish.