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.