|Jan/Feb 2009 Poetry|
There was no sun. So goats didn't bleat
and rush under trees, sheds; the stray dogs
that roamed around quarrelling over pieces
of meat in garbage dumps hotfooted to
verandahs. Opened doors shut on their own.
Closed unlatched doors opened shut perplexed
at the wind's guerrilla attack; shut opened perplexed.
The wind didn't come alone. Rains.
It was three o'clock at night. It didn't let me write.
It didn't let me sleep. Didn't let me stand and
watch it fall disperse invade all that was dry
in a minute and smile at its ferocity longing frustration.
It was scared of me. The rain and the wind and
the leaves it brought to me
without any appointment taken
made me busy in arranging the pages
of the novel I was weaving. Otherwise,
I'd have just breathed all of it into myself; trapped it.