Senses

​​Only

a ray of light

was quicker

than the glance

which she gave me

in the library;

the thousands of books

inside 

had no record of 

the moment.

The chapati
bakes

on the black tava

gets dark patches;

puffs up

like my heart when she coils

the end of her hair

on her finger.

The thick blue smoke

from the cheap cigarettes

fill the air

of my room;
forms her image

which I see.

Only opium to cure my senses.

The Reducing Number of Women

Stray cats

Walking,

Haunting the naked streets with

Their dark grey eyes.
It’s past midnight

And the street lamp –

Bright yellow –

Flickers.
The black bins,

Punctured,

Tumble in the alleys.
Half-bitten, 

Rotting apples,

Roll out in the shadows.
The stench of rotting garbage

Kisses the still, hot air

Of the night.
Women in glittery, golden dresses

Roam the street;

Car’s stop;

Car’s start;

The women reduce in number,

Only to arrive again.