The Evening Is an Interlude The evening is but a pause, A cold sigh Or a new paragraph.   All days and nights pause here Time turns over and continues the narrative. The evening is but a pause. The

  ‘Pound’s Mr. Gandhi’ No one liked him especially, I think Since all saints are great destroyers Imagine the poor, with a painted paradise at the end of it without a painted paradise at the end of it Once there

  All that unfinished business of love… Like a cardigan, half sewn Ending in scraggy tendrils of wool   Like a spider’s web, half woven Ending in broken, hanging gossamer threads   Like an uprooted plant Ending in muddy rootlets

  I CHING Not five thousand years ago But yesterday   In a flight of freedom from the silky sheaves of affluent slumber folded in   A coffee table book in a Hong Kong household   Our great ancestor Grandfather

   Firewife When you did not come back for me, I bit off my braid and walked my heaviness to the river   and cursed the many ways I had sought to hold you, how I had stood bloodless under

  forlorn pine tree,  float like a memory in breeze before riots began   another dkhar dies khasi brothers mourn the death of a december at Ballimaran rain floods the floor of a house lovers look away ice mirrors the