It IS the last.

Now all that remains
of the box,
of summer,
is the aroma—
a scent you can almost
eat.

I am not fond of you, Summer,
but I love you.

I love how we meet every year
with warmth, at first,

and then inevitably
temperatures flare.

You can't help me,
you can't help yourself.

I hate you and I curse you
more and more every year

and yet,
and yet

when you leave
you kiss me with
the impossible sweetness
of mangoes.

MANGOING was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We, all day.
The crickets, all night.
The birds, somewhere in between.

We wait and we wait
for our turn
to speak.

Conversation was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I think
you may have
a drinking problem.

You have been
guzzling water
like it is beer

and farting
clouds of oxygen
all over the room.

Now
don't get
all defensive.

You are quite
a righteous
little bitch,

aren't you?

For the Bamboo Shoot on My Desk was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

1987 original,
slightly used.

A little rough
around the edges.

A little scar
above the forehead.
Negligible internal damage.

Great mileage:
Can run all day
(and night)
without a break.

A little trouble
with the brakes
but you'll figure it out.

Can process gentle arithmetic
and the occasional dark comedy.

Not suited for multitasking:
Already in two places at once.

Feeds on books and poetry
and the occasional coffee.

Limited stock.
No returns. No exchange.
Serious buyers only.

For Sale: was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Afternoon comes,
as it will,
as it will.
You come in the afternoon.
—×—

There's evening.
Then there's evening.
You are nowhere to be seen.
—×—

Night.
The night is a blanket
I wrap around my body,
leaving a toe out,
just the one toe,
for the child of the morning.

DAYLING was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

goes the tin roof

and we wheel around
to see
if
it is raining

but
no
it is only
the pigeons
going

tip top
tip top
tip top

their tiny feet
tapping

their tiny bodies
dancing

our tiny minds
laughing

at this

tip top
tip top
tip top

of
mischief.

RAINDANCE was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

so we need to cry
every now and then

so that the salt water
can open

our gills

our heart

our fins

and keep us afloat.

SEACRET was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I cannot read
the writing on the wall

or judge vehicles
on the road
on a rainy day

but sometimes
I let my glasses down
and 'choose' this blindness.

Things appear
more blurred
and less bloody,

the knife's edge
appears softer
and less cruel.

I can't see the stars
in the sky

but the lights in the streets
shine like stars themselves,

little twinkling stars
white and yellow
and red and green

bobbing
up and down
up and down

on a firmament
that we have carved
for ourselves,

a firmament that appears
only when we
can't see
very well.

MYOPIA was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

'Naíve' sounds so much
like someone's name
she says.

'Naíve' sounds like a lady
holding a nice cuppa coffee
she says.

Yes, my love,
yes.

Naíve is that lady.

Naívete is believing
the world will let her sip
that cuppa coffee in peace.

But
be Naíve,
please.

Be Naíve.

The world may grumble,
civilisations may crumble

but don't let
that coffee
get cold.

NAÍVE was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

‘So, I was lost in this big, big banana grove.
I’d no idea how I’d gotten there
or how I would get out.
And then it hit me that
I must eat all the bananas —
the green ones, the yellow ones, the red ones ­—
and I would find the answer in one of them.’

‘Thank you. Welcome to Galpa.’

‘Password, please.’

‘So, I was lost in this big, big banana grove.
It was heaven, I tell you.
I ate all the bananas —
the green ones, the yellow ones, the red ones.
They fed me and I fed them
and we lived happily ever after.’

‘Thank you. Welcome to Galpa.’

‘Password, please.’

‘So, I was lost in this big, big banana grove.
The flowers were tentacles
and the trees dragged their soulless bodies
across the darkness of the moor.
I once caught a glimmer of the moon
and once a glimmer of the sun
and understood that
the only way out was upwards.’

‘Thank you. Welcome to Galpa.’

‘Password, please.’

‘So, I was lost in this big, big banana grove.
It was so cool and so tranquil that
I sat under one of the trees
and closed my eyes just for a moment,
or was it a day or an eon?
I cannot say for sure
but soon I was light with flowers
and laden with fruits
and we danced our slow dance
across the darkness of the moor.’

‘Thank you. Welcome to Galpa.’

GALPA was originally published in bibliobibhuli on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.