in memory of Santi Bose

Your house keeps

a wholesome view

of the mountains,

the houses clinging

to their sides, lit boxes.

The year shall change

an hour later and I think

of a well shriveled leaf

let loose into the open.

But this old year will not

travel. It will simply slip away

like the ones who had gone

ahead of us, who never took

anything from here.

The fireworks shoot up colors

we can never imagine,

puncturing the night sky

like Braille.

We can only read

good omens.

We can only hope

that the future—the arriving

year—come with

the spectacle of plenty.


the first morning,

sunlight shall slash through

a blanket of smoke.

We shall stagger

to address the familiar

with a new name and love

our strangeness further

because we always

stay the same.

August 2, 2001

The Internet is alive


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