Verse 222

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Like the account of a
Long dropped lover which
Lingers untouched on your Facebook

One you wouldn’t delete,
One you attach no value to,

You are hung, watching me,
Portrait of the Artist — a young man —
Watching me: a young dog.

I am surrounded by nothingness
And now I have come to realize
That to read verse can be the worser
If you open your eyes:

I am half misted by the spirit of the dead.
Perhaps, I have come too far to turn back.


Will you tell me a story,
A time when you were small —
Of how dreams evaporated with the glory
In the touch of the first fall?

Of how your teeth fell at seven or eight,
Of how you were told to throw them on the roof?
How you stood feeling with tongue the lost weight
Of a tooth, perturbed and aloof?


On the other side of 25,
To a milky virgin you insist
That the urge to call me by names
Which show me that I have aged
She should somehow resist.

Her eyes, no longer the insistent;
Her flesh no longer the lure;
Her flirtatious spirit like a withered
Cabbage — cos I’ve seen the same same
More than a hundred times; they seduce no longer

But, how can I be sure? As you
Play with lashes and a nippy
Tilted head, is it a wish that I should wish
You breath held in bed? An aging spirit
On timelessness meditates.



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