i will go
up
into the mountains
the empty spaces you will go down
where the wind to the city
shuddering a small room a
through quaking single chair aspen
screech of
is the only police or
conversation ambulance
and occasional
the air so clear gunshots
and bright at
dawn the waves against
the sky every the city shore
shade of gold the temptation
the peaks sharp to walk beside
like knives them in the dark
the wind cold at night
and startling when your mind
is racing
in the silence
poems are the constant
writing themselves thudding
on crisp waves lines bodies
white sheets exploding
on the pages
i remember
the city you remember
me.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
April 4, 2000