We run out. The bus bursts.
Heat came with a decade long
warning letter. I did not read even
yours, frightened, if I read, the words
will evaporate. Now I know none of us
read any. The fire in the milieu hisses.
I splash hot water from an iron
and public tap. You are still on your knees.
Perhaps you imagine that we are still
in that blazing bus, but it is this Sun.
I extend my heart. You hesitate at first,
touch it with yours and the Summer
smelt our ores, and they run toward
the cool gutter, core, oblivion.
.
Words & Picture
Kushal Poddar
.