Intoxication seeks its home address
in the girl’s body. The rickshaw’s
driver refuses her, says, “Nothing
but trouble, sir, a lot of responsibility.”
The moon’s weaning crescent casts
one percent light. The tongue
of the street licks the house that holds
the clear and loud corner of a triangle.
If you listen to the sleepless bird
its tweets will sound like the last
OTP sent by your heart. You do not
want to share it. A right decision.
The girl slurs something about the rain.
The firmament looks pristine.
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Picture and words
Kushal Poddar
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