Saturday, December 17, 2011


Streetlights wrapped in fog
The pavement mistakes nine for zero
Tall in dreadlocks and jeans
She passes

I turn to see her recede
The appointment of our previous loves
Lost in a turbulent crossing

poetry of my youth
I let her pass.

In the auto queue
I do not understand the exchange of eyes
The breadth of her shoulders quiver
Her fingers are restless on her friend’s
and behind her back her fingers
speak in Tamil

Inside, her face flicks a turn,
and again

And my fingers seek darkness

At our destination
I pay my fare

She waits

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