Her eyes felt some itchiness,
they have been blinking,
to sieve that queerness, a bit more…
Queerness which caressed her
since a few days now…
Moistened her dreary linings,
for some Suns, at least…
even as peering conscience
tuned the radar by the minute.
Summer afternoons, sultry,
are usually the puddles that we
chuckle and jump over…
They may surface as quaint, rusted…
rushed anecdotes,
perched on skirtings,
that we will deliberately avoid,
to broom through…
Perhaps to save those dust laces,
when we write about
reminiscing Lilies…
Blinders taken off…
The heretofore irrelevant,
that minuscule pantomime…
Evenings are destined to lit bonfire,
and embracing embers…
The twilight beam,
that he awaited and walked along.
His coarse skin,
polished silky,
yet husk vital-vitreous,
by finger tips,
carved by the Elysian chisel.
They are the clasps
chosen for him by the
Blue Nightingale, who sings
through many skies,
while crickets steal some tunes,
to stitch lullabies
for our stranded nights
when the Nightingale
decides to sleep early!
