Evenings must go.
There is something damned
about them. They are vapid
but crimson hues will know
that evening comes to go.
It is a way of giving
and taking
and the night's prolonged
anointment is conspiracy
to rub evening's wasted
ways in lukewarm tea
or a cup of milk.
Evenings are poised between
extremities.
Come and go.
I know evenings are a wasted
breath of stupor.
They die.
Their longevity is truncated
by catcalls. Horrific nights. Dark skies.
Evenings must come and go.
I know, to hear the whelp
or puppies claiming antagonism. India's lined
hutments will know
how evenings are a jugular vein.
Once in Shillong where I live
the headless man
rode on horseback with a thud.
With his British bowler hat
in the backyard of vacuous mind.
His ghost still pulls evening's gory steps.
The headless horse and horseman
are evening's nascent memories.
