We are mostly writing posthumous poems
In the corners of our souls, in the outer reaches
Of our bodies, from the despair of ripe nights.
A shrill midnight whistle causes such poems.
Some poems come from lonely street corners
Where heavy boots will arrive, on Himalayan
Feet with large sized memories of kids and wife
In a firelight of warm coals in deep snow hills.
The street dog’s howls aggravate such poems.
A bloody uprising in us triggers some poems
In the unreal company of a Kafka in beard
When humongous creatures fill front rooms
Of overflowings from pockets, book shelves
Our windows closed from the inside of rain.
Our literary agent has just died of our poems.
He will sure publish our poems posthumously.