I am a whiff of air lingering
through empty morning streets.
To every corner of a rusty cart,
to every chair sitting desolate in
the puddle of electric wires:
I bequeath a future trajectory
of how my life is going to be
once I am reincarnated as the wind.
The silage of tandoor, fruit shop,
fruit flies, the masjid tessellations
will remember me as a vagrant
collecting gems out of tedium.
I have embarked upon the dull task
of forgetting. I am glad I was born
here, in this meagre town where dark
cables shroud the beauty of pine canopies
and beetles invade dead dogs on skewed
pavements. I am grateful that I will tuck
this morning away. How much more is
there to forget? Each unnamed body ache
is a longing, a jam jar expiring silently.