Saturday, November 22, 2008

the party simmers down.

sleep softened voices
cart across the terrace
faint bitter whiffs
of whisky; lemon-peel
laughter parachutes
into the night. above,

slow-moving clouds,
shapeless maps
of despair plotting
the longitudes of distance,
moor under the full moon. now,

his languid arm tugs
at the complying convexity
of her waist; soon,
they will be shadows
behind the water tank. there,

bombay skylines right
into the sea: a school
of anonymous windows
plunge earthward, drowning,
one square-lit pane
at a time. somewhere,

you are finding your way
back to yourself.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

i wonder how long that will take - finding the way back to oneself.