Evening in a caterpillar garden,
garth, the clouds’ chrysalis
entombs our conversations.
The conclusions we reach
reverse themselves when the rain
reaches for the ground.
The words wet the dirt, and a few
syllables recoils, leaves the meanings.
Nothing ends. We can talk again,
about peace, inciting a revolt,
guiding our daughters and sons,
about dying, but nothing ends;
not the sleep-coil friend burning
from both ends on a magic mushroom,
not the one I call only when
I need an ending, but he doesn’t have it.
It wasn’t even manufactured.
We wait in the cocoon, dream about
the way a girl may shout and giggle
when our flight may stub and startled her.
She will rush into the middle of a flower bed at the unspoilt part of a city erased.
This slumber may be the longest part
we live but flaring before we vanish
is what we like.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
.