From the stroke of dawn
To the hours of mid day,
The monotonous beat of unceasing rain,
Like the scenery of the Southern Highway
Runs on and over the puddled shapeless drain.
And because you are gone — distanced yourself
From the unchanging city — the house,
Resigned empty, devoid of ruffles or movement
— Vacant of all personality — in nonchalance
Meets me, as I watch from the pavement.
Yes — I wonder. Isn’t that what what we
Preserve as life, in its revealing moment,
Reveals to be: a flat-backed silence,
Distantly in league with the economy,
Which makes familiar terrain too alien to stand.
That gateway, that plaster and colour codes
Matched and applied to hold back weather
Knows me not — in your absence and exit
We have met, but as foreigners to foreigners
Without a language for thought.
These months, days, where in meditative step,
If not in haze, where we had passed the other
In and out to her arms: you realize
The walls are a security that can snub you on the face —
And you: just an illusion living your chance.