The morning went into many pieces
A cuckoo’s call to rain, rain to come,
Thinking of new ways to neighbor area
Walking on mud to explore fresh skies
In visible light of yet-to poetry, photo.

A fan in room had a touch of the cold
The cold death of the tree that has been,
The sky spaces between the other trees
Where birds will speak in parliament.

In the streets are footfalls of men’s walk
A distant sing-song of  morning to god
And flowers smelling from felled creepers.

The lake that cried in our filthy waters
To the machine that silently cleaned it.
Beyond the lake are its borders of flats
Where people sleep in lake mosquitoes
Those have their history mixed with us.

In the meantime women sweep streets
Their broom-sounds assailing our ears
In the liquid treatment of dusty roads.
Their husbands have froth at mouths.
Their kids get up bleary eyed for school.



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