BEGINNING

image

Pic Courtesy: http://www.tumblr.com

The bus stop, the bus
and the bus stop.
.
.
The pigeon feeding
on the crossing
isn’t a letter,


but a possibility.

The close horizon has
boiling kettles on blue flames,
getting bluer

and the eye chase
in a poem of
passing shades.

It just reels back
to what you call
dream.
.
.
.
Wind guests speak
in volumes.

Why do words die
after that?

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