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.
Tomorrow,
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
