Not even a noon street, not even Gwalior...
The crisscross ropes on
the bamboo charpoy
threw down lucid shapes
as I lay under it
seeking respite
ripples of a fable in an
afternoon of restless sleep.
I touched gregarious monsters
gentle on a fortwing palace doors
holding an inner city turmoil.
A stranger time so far away
and you beckoning me to
cross the long stride darkness
of an aftermath of a vicious moment.
A curving railway track binding us
receding in another season
that afternoon.
