21 Dec 98 | Asylum

Cardboard box of snail shells;
A jug with warm milk, tied up in threads;
A red table cloth with checkered, blue pattern;
White squares with old gold coins,
resting over these glass poles in your verandah.
A room inside a tree trunk [empty and cold] with a few crawling ants.
Low, swift flowing wind at the entrance, creating escape trails for young pilots.
               Window of your room opens away to this facing street.
Dim yellow light from rusting lampposts.
Disappearing people; empty cardboard box like shops.
Open, rainy pavement joining hands with your sitting friend.
         He pops out his head, to take a look at the passing crowd:
holding dull jute handbags, white cotton shirts…
                  … muddy leather shoes with untied shoelaces.
          Prevent him from forgetting….
these little things because some things are like reflections,
kept flickering to be grasped…
                        …. And kept remembered… for nothing at all.