STORM

Windows break free of the wavering hold

Of metal conversation; the sound

Allayed of empty glass begins its descent

To the stone pavement below. Outside,

Smells linger: of paper-borne ink and mud-brown sea

Translated into lungfuls of air. The prescient red

Of a lover’s forgotten dupatta, faithfully retrieved

By a beggar on the beach. Love, to him, is an enigma.

He hears the cries immutable of distant appeal, a thousand others,

Voiceless and yet louder than the cinch of money stolen

From the capital. The skies are quiet, still.

It all happens at once. The taste of disappeared tongues,

Of fevers maligned to death befriend; it makes

Him clutch the dupatta closer, if only for a moment feel

The moist imprint of a kiss. Here, it never rains.