poetry is not like
a bus and yet-
lily taps her foot

when i alight
upon the light
and the lights

go ping-
the driver asks
if i want a ticket

and where i would go?
i think of goa
and all the other

pretty places-
i consider space
within and without..

i consider him
his shining dome
general design

after all my life
his hands..
change-(that word

again..)and up a
spiral
while accelerating!

and breaking
up and back and
on..!

above the trees
the brown plowed
fields

to sit at my seat
like boiled owl
lick my ice cream cone..