From underneath a plastic paper plate I peep,
Good ol sunshine, glad you’re here –
So, now I breathe. They have gone, then,
Back up the highway, like the Greeks out of shore,
For a year, now: damn literature no more.
Like a Christmas tree, remove the soundproof
from my walls. Clean the dirt, remains,
Slide out the shell; be me. Abandoned fortress
Festive from fatuousness can’t tell:
Left behind: gone, the pomp, the pageantry.
Babul seller, by two couples, in salty yawns,
Feel the tremour of the soft wind
By the scenery. A flatboot voyeur,
squinted eyed, stalk the whole
outside chance of catching a glimpse of eternity.