Clutter

How do I sort this mesh of light
Through another room window

Where a woman is ironing light
In a hole of neighbor apartment?

Does her light belong to my eye
If the room is other for my eyes?

But in light’s clutter of this room
With crooked rays from skylight

I have to get a mess out of holes
Before claiming a woman’s light.

Sky is keepsake of light

Not every man will remember
A rain on night with dog howl

But the sky is keepsake of light.
Cirrus and cumulus float a sky

While sunset torches one day
And moon lets down its trees.

But not every man remembers
A dog howl at mom’s vacating

As memory turns to a pale sky.
Dog howls at a midnight’s sky.

Rain falls on night for nothing
After men vacate their spaces.

( reading Mark Strand’s poem The End)

The ruins of Golconda fort

The shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts
Over matchstick’s sounds across bushes.
Today it is back again, dreaming out of.

We may exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are a flesh turned stone with men.
Their sleeping tombs are cold with past.

Bodies were covered in a male darkness
And their stomachs homes to male egos.
Now they are in the same stone as men.