I meet one kid carrying the beats
in her tiny device, swaying and jogging,
and we cross. “Goodnight”, We greet.
The atmosphere is mainly moon, hence
lunatic; treetops bathe in third world baby-feed,
look pale, chalky, skimmed; screaming when the wind
irritates the stillness between the summer and the rain.
We have been jogging for years and eons, never and zen,
her music spilling a few notes on the verdant quiescence.
We halloo sometimes; other nights we reign the silence.
Atmosphere I I
A morning cicada turns
my daylight into the deep night.
Dim pane, sighs fall from the sky,
and I listen them hitting
the corrugated tin.
I see a sinful singular bird in red boots
dancing through the Sunday
and all these sundry ways of dying a bit
as if it is the most romantic notion.
My eyelids demolish the universe now and then,
rebirth it anew. Only morning and yet
I have the flesh of one survived years in
a secret prisoner camp. I try to whistle
one escape plan that can never succeed.
Illustration Nick Victor