Affliction
Books lying on the center table,
Half dead, half read —
Bookmarkers wedged in-between pages
And paragraphs trimmed at edges.
Drawn checkered curtains —
Naked curved-back chairs —
Hurt, neatly folded on cold metal boxes,
Wide awake beneath a safety-pinned bed sheet.
The room echoes
In unremitting barks,
Stray machines hum
Their tune from buzzing sockets on empty walls,
And hurt follows patterns
Which we cannot draw.
We are still so much the same.
Tears roll down
The grooves of spectacles,
Forming hazy puddles
At the lowest possible point.
And at the speed at which
Emotions run,
Two continuous lines
Stand askew.
Rhododendrons
Suddenly — a twenty feet splash
Like red flesh hanging from crooked arms —
The drooping clusters calling secret names.
The terra cotta sun
Casts an afternoon calm
On the fire engine plant.
|
