The Last Day of Last Year

The day has drawn apart the shades of light 
that come together in your eyes; these were colours 
the fishermen were descaling last year in Mawa Ghat 
on a day like this. Days like this 
simplify the nature of colours and thoughts.

Your hair caught the sun 
from certain angles, and as it grew darker, the 
scent of late winter leaves burning in piles swam 
between the gulf of us.

I talked about catching carp and 
how this poem is just as common, 
and unwanted and has too many bones. 
But in these swamps we can afford little else.

I talk about my favourite bait 
and how I am myself too.

It is now dark on the driest day of the year. 
There is a gap forming between your thin lips as you smile 
like the window I used to peer though on last days of years past 
for a grim want to answer as suns sank across my barred view. 
A thing that is missing. 
A thing I almost slid off of, mistaking it for a chair.

But it was a cloud 
and you cannot sit on want.

It is night within the window 
and the reflection is only of my grim smile.