Friday, February 27, 2009

You, in this letter,

different from the car-horn that blared,

slicing the stillness of the evening।

That is where you have slipped in

between, the rythms,

like the sheets of the bed

and my legs tonight।

You, and not the sadhu,

alms-bowl and arm outstretched,

standing in plea,

You, and not him or me।