In the Garden of Freemasons, Kolkata.
Gnats flee into thickets Swans too, in search of periodic water.
I brood on Jibanananda Das, poems tucked Into a notebook, returning
from the Book Fair
Struck dead by a tramcar, aged fifty-four. On tendrils of dirt, in the
spot where he fell
Spirits cluster. Children sing to each other Tossing balls as children
A mechanical bird tethered with wire Circles a stall of neon colored
bras, panties too.
Needing a place to wait for you (Chowringhee undid me)
I sit on a flat stone in the garden of Freemasons. What did the poet say
about swans, nine of them, mystical?
He did not know why there were nine Vanishing into trees, but that there
He was sure. It's dark in your city, clouds cover the moon
The House of Freemasons tilts With the weight of gnats wings.
Under a crystal chandelier, When he's sure no one is looking
A man with red hair polishes his own shoes. Don't go away, think of
I hear you say-- It's all you need to do now, or ever really.