A squirrel moves a wall to black and white and the electric clock. A girl’s head flits through a square of darkness between bare bricks on the first floor. A half window, boned, leaning. A creeper hammocks on the TV cable on a pearl and graphite sky.
Take me home.
Girls wear skirts again. Pujas in three weeks. I look for him with a shadow on the upper lip and yell, “Your mum won’t suffer your life.”
On the way to office, it looks like rain.
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