You are making dog ears tonight

You are water, I cannot write you

My window is closed to the night’s incandescent beams,

I shout at the stars for stealing light from papers,

each word an eye shut.

The madman in my alley tore the moon down, wrote a letter on it.

I saw him running here and there, asking for your address.

He said, you are drying your shirts in the sky’s clothesline–

The bulb’s fuse blew. The moon became a scrap of metal.

Brown rust ate it. Everything is dark here. Everything is dark here.

You are sitting on my page today, making dog ears again.

You thumb down the pages of my book,

asking in defiance, “Akou ekhon kitab? But why the ado?

Has aai slept well? Did she eat something?

Does the godhuli gopal bloom in profusion this year?

Does it smell of my au

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