In a high wind, trees lacking leaves spill open
Vowels void themselves
Pity and fear subside into stones
Sentences are purged.
On a footpath where a rajah strolls
A woman’s voice sucks commas into a nest
That clings to a tree with no bark
What If He Doesn’t Want You At All?—
A sixties jingle, barely remembered,
Then – Waiting For You My Whole Life
At Last I Glimpse your Face!
Clouds concoct themselves into a scroll
Notes swirl, petals of water splash a rajah
Robbed of his elephant, strolling in unseemly heat
Brooding on his out of pocket mistresses.