tonight is like a poem
from my roof I watch
a skinny cat cross
july-dried grass.
a firefly starts through
my peripheral,
and the indians
are playing cricket
in parking lots and punjab
a love affair between sun and sky
wrinkled the world as sweaty sheets,
but the heat of consummation has risen
midnight and early morning
bring a lifting
out of my smothering
house and its light-footed
houseflies, I sit
I breathe
I observe, apart from
my sweating day-self
that tonight
is like a poem
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