By
Sanjeev Sethi
STREET SONG
In the stillness of the main street my heart
pounds. Here, I’m used to sound: safety
in sonic impressions. Chimes of demotic
idiom calm my inscape, though afebrile
settings don’t suit the frame.
After-hours, pie-dogs and parcel boys reign.
Beneath the awnings is their club. Membership,
as in all sodalities is adhered by stringent rules:
for the roofless. Hobos and horse flies populate it.
Cops are occasional guests. *Hafta is their hooch.
*Bribe
PLEDGE
Let us make love
with sky as our duvet.
My thighs your bed.
Let the wind whirl
away all thought.
Let’s touch silence.
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