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Later the tale

of the white Dev and brave Rustam,

the distant moon a mango pit

licked smooth by a day old goat.

A nightly

ash of whispered ledgers.


How much like the body a house is,

how much like revolution:

After endless stupor, endless spiral



joints, marbled thresholds,

echoes, live currents running


walls, bejeweled

not yet bullet-proof.

Our elders became fruit trees

after they passed on

this country to us. They scent

the terraces and stroke

the roofs.


They say:

Breathe in

the scintillating saw dust

of the yet unbuilt.



Posted 04/21/15
This poem, dedicated to Nasreen Zafar, was first published in the anthology "The Second Genesis."
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