The dream, a three eyed fish
swimming toward a bright red fly,
disappears in the grey green
befit meets its destined death.
I have heard that some like milk
after waking up in a pool of bedsheet.
Some take their leashes out for a stroll
and recall while standing underneath
the conical light gushing from
the second streetlight after the first bend
in the lane that their dogs have left
them in their youth. I do not do those.
I open my eyes and see you most nights
in the cup of the couch still staring
at me. The old paintwork
falls off the walls of births.
.
Kushal Poddar
Words & Picture
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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