Sunday, May 18

life of a human

I do not know, if
smoked tunas are hung out
to dry on walls by the beach, bicycle
I have only heard of smoked salmons.
But they sound nice.

I would like to play
some football. I do not know how I get
I have heard of Pele and Maradona,
seen pictures of busty girlfriends.
But all of it looks nice.

Tomorrow, you will come, you will go,
like a cloud some rain, then barren
I have heard of love and hearts in a flutter,
read stories where they died together.
But then, it dreams nice.

I have wondered about the Dhaka muslin,
or more about Dacca. Spellings carry
Under which lamp now sits the boy
whose grandfather once weaved looms of splendor?
And it touches nice.

I have sat under the low, mango tree
counting the stones they pelt. I would like
an alphonso steamed in the fumes of
a volcano.
My favorite will be Stromboli.
But it tastes nice.

And then I wonder,
if strombolied alphonso is same as
beach-hung smoked tuna?
I wonder who will tell me,
I dream no one will,



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