" . "

If you read this poem
to find words
to burn in your mental furnace,
to extract from it precious lines,
and to dismiss the rest as dross,
to be removed,
dumped in some trash bin,
I tell you, in the end,
this is what you will find-
a period.

Blind-side

After removing my glasses,
the smoke muffled the words, shuffled
the meaning, twisted the view like a slur.

The acridity bites my ears
like angry dogs tearing away not just fabric
but my flesh from flesh.

Outside this open window of the top-most floor,
the air is sucked out to the edge of the concrete
where I stood.

The Last Time

I recall the last time I saw you like a glow
scattering in a sky, cloud-less and full of wings,
as if to bring the light closer over waters,
rippling like recollections, glistening like my eyes.

On the sand, I used to feel their grain on my feet,
sinking into them as if falling to your embrace.
The light's warmth dispersed the breeze disheveling
my hair. Your glances, then, so generous with smiles.

You swirl in my memories like wind-tossed grains
of sand, crimson in the light.

Blur

I have become a window-glass, wind-splashed by rain.
The outside view blurs like words disappearing
from dreams. With my reflection gone,
I have no more thoughts welling-up from springs
that burst forth lyrics from my head.

The window glass is immobile like I am, battered
with heat of dry wind over a wilderness,
grass-less, where thoughts die like cattle,
their flesh wasting away. Then, the rain comes
to wash away the skin left clinging to the bones.