We are looking for our stories
In the park ,under a thin tree
On green bench ,thereabouts.
A person coughs, wipes his face
In a silhouette, drinking water
To a raised throat, diagonally
As sun strikes and a white wall
Stays put in shadows of hedge. Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words
On bare feet to earth, cracked
Like mind in a nothing’s duress.
The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words. Stories are just words of things
Behind , wiggling worms found
Under long lying stones in sun.
They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.