You do not know whom to call.
The mud moves towards your door
with its arrows, circles and vortex.
You see both the archaic antenna
from your neighbors’ roof
and the bicycle from their basement.
Where went the middle part?
You do not know that.
Whom to call? SOS? The void is
already here, and life should run
a recap fast, but all you see
are the heads of the lives sacrificed,
and the slate gray mud erasing noise
and geometry with softness.
And Run
The tramlines turn to the blindside.
No car runs on those these days.
Some bedouin plastics chart and point at
the directions of the wind. An eviction drive
has erased the pavement. I walk on the road,
see them, and those facts add nothing
I may keep on the upper shelf of the brain.
Where is the rain they alerted us about
and said that our houses to are
no longer immovables?
When I stumble into the blind side
the turn I left behind loses its eyes.
From the mess hall of the river boats
one anchor drops down. I mark the spot
with a chalky x and run.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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