there he is, dishevelled
wrapped in a longi
barely awake, but
glowing eyes
that draw me in
a transparent emerald
pond to dive in to
we are alone
we are both exhausted
and collapse into a cuddle
that includes
the crows, the dogs
touching finger tips
the bulldozer, and finally
if I had any doubts of synonyms
for night time in India
the over volumned static flow
of prayers at four in the morning
AWAKE
dried eyed and sticky skin
we lie touching fingers
and ask what it means to be here
in this room
if we come up with an answer tonight
we’re allowed to change our minds
in the morning
