I
crossing the street
in Bangalore traffic —
never more alive
II
even in wee hours,
if I hear only silence,
I know I’m asleep
III
random backstreet:
yet, more color than a
carnival midway
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The voyage, now, is at an end.
The anchors have been cast.
The fleet bobs silently offshore,
looking boundlessly vast.
For fog has settled on the bay
and ship shapes fade to gray.
They count themselves infinite ships
while bounded by that bay.
The sea deceives, that much is true;
the rest we’ve yet to know.
Some will swear that trawlers sit there
that were lost long ago.
There was a sweet girl from the Netherlands who worried the hard rains might never end. When the streets became moats, she traded bike for boat, and rowed fast that girl of the Netherlands.

under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…
