Twenty-One

i cannot imprison this city in a flesh cage of

words.

like some blue-spotted butterfly, killed and distilled

and pressed between glass-

such imprisonment is not for the living.

and this city lives.

yes, there is death. that man on the

road, lying on the dusty ground

ravenous for shade

and perhaps rice

or lost, contemplating, for

reasons i should not

and need not

know.

that girl weaving in between the

bumblebee yellow rickshaws

marutis suzukis

sweetly shreaking, her pleas

thinned by the thickness of the glass

and dust and heat

the beeping horns,

sister, please, sister, give me something?

walkers and deep sleepers

crooks and shopkeepers

waiters and weary mothers

drivers and murderous brothers-

i stare at the signs. so many

words 

crawling every

-where

they are selling to the city

they are buying from the city

but the city is not bought nor sold,

because she is too busy living,

and she will not lie lifeless in words, neither

on neon boards

nor in my own