EXCERPT from "In Madras":
In Madras, a storm of notes like ants
or thick dust subtracts
from the body in which
the sheen of a gluey blue bubble
languidly attached to a stem of white
simultaneously inflates and sags,
as does a thrown out purple sofa in the rain
next to a red tin for Chinese cookies & yellow rubber sandals.
The mighty peony, degraded, endures
as a link to be grasped like the smell
of the pipe’s exhalation at a birthday party
not forgotten exactly—just less attended to
in the clamor of oils and collision of shadows
on Maxwell Street. The panic of the bull,
oily and black as time
focused on the red whirl
of the future’s cascade
that collapses
in the private gauze of tears
swimming across the gaze
in an afternoon’s sandstorm light.
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