For me these poems are closures
They sort of conclude me
Though some of them like suicide bombers
May explode in your vicinity
Your poems
can never be closures
nor even you
your words have crept slowly
on a stranger noon
when the mind slept
of Indian summers
you left the doors open
hot wind blew in
you shaped the sky broken from collisions
you shaped the traffic jam at longnightend
you shaped the maddening rain to errant disclosures
they exploded
when a smile
strayed to many a horizon
to many a death threat
of a sudden
sun.
