The last page of
Ashok’s novel is moving.
I turn that last page over.
I lay the book on the floor; aside.
When you say that
You can’t love me all less for this world,
That to you I mean nothing,
Something that was inside of me closed eyes, slowly cried.
This can’t go on; this is
Indignant and purple craving for flesh
Sweat, saliva and sufference.
And being different inside; sporting surface indifference.
Losing out is some clichetic perfected art.
That final ambush of the impulsive heart
And a wasted hay-stack of words and justification
Which, had been used with sense, may have built the nation.