The plane circles the city high and low,
searching for the break in the lashing rain,
the moment when the gathered winds must wane,
so we may circle down, down to the shining glow
of a city’s winter light. Time drifts so slow.
Time enough to pause, consider pain
and love, and touch. So long since we have lain
our bodies down — is it with fingers so
that once we touched? Your hand beneath my breast,
my lips that traced the line of collarbone,
sliding down, down to the city’s heart…
or was it yours? The sun set in the west
long hours ago. No stars — so quite alone
we circle down. We join, and someday part.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
December 5, 1998