The birds break into a sufi twirl.
For a moment, the world
is the muffled water in the clouds,
heartache and a spinning gyro.
An almost bald dog declines
death’s demands. A beggar boy
wants only an afternoon of ice-cream.
The birds create a hole in the sky.
A drop of some fluid appears on
and disappears from my palm.
I search for a fiber of memory.
You wear a looking glass head in it.
Kushal Poddar
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