Now I take my room’s inside out.
I will empty its contents in space.

Room is now a memory’s hollow.
Books are my scattered memory

Their contents spread as hollows,
Like thoughts when I am in sleep

My books are memory’s outside
Spilled in a vast hollow of space.

The room’s hollow lies scattered
Beyond  a balcony, beyond night.

My inside is a  hollow stretching
Indefinitely outside of  my body.




This night’s calming sounds
Are of sea’s waves with gulls,
Gulls being a forgetful wave,

A kind of oblivion you loved
As by Ashbery , since passed
Beyond anyone’s conjecture.

We are composing our wave,
The poem about an oblivion,
The sea where all poets went.

(reading John Ashbery’s poem Not Beyond All Our Conjecture)

Stony silence

Loved woman had snakes in hair.
She would turn you stone to look.
A mere looking turned you stone,

You must not go near a tamarind
That has snake tresses in the dark
And is home to childhood ghosts.

And death lives in a cave of trees.
All poetry sings is a stony silence
By body turned stone by looking.

Summer sun

We are awaiting the call of doctor
Whose death is buried in that wall

And my own, a subtext, in the mag
Touches a wall ,where sockets live

And phones die numbers of times
And the newspaper dies with men

Whose epithelial cells die in a lab
And sodium dies in adrenal gland.

Every thing dies of something else
But summer sun crawls regardless.



In tubes and in heart’s dance
I see you, from outside room.

Sitting on the waiting bench,
I wonder when hilarity stops,

As your heart feebly dances
On the light box by your side.

There are no new poor jokes.
You crack old ones in supply.