Five am chimes drowsy
buried in layers of dust moments
down in the bone trenches;
an old habit
creaking through sixty-two years of debris
casting feeble spots on the bedside wall.
Out there the pink is breaking grey
in rhythm with each muscle and cell
hurting back into senses.
Streams of water rolling down the throat
is louder than the clouds after the drought
but, it’s set even on the pattern on the drinking glass,
set in the programme
and part of the monsoon.
Sitting down with the walls
the last bit of love in the house spills out the window
to run down miles, miles and miles…
across the day that was just erected
out of dry twigs breaking crisp
under the weight of
the no man’s land,
the beastly nothing,
the doesn’t matter-
the deadweight of