in the end even the landlord grew intimate
as an old friend he looked at the servant & her children
the lightness, the freshness, o the repressible humanity
seemed as crushed rajnigandha in the dust of this midnight
if he could turn the wheel back-
the ceiling fan's thin-long stem's wide spoke chugs the liquifying heat of summer
(it seems even to hit an odd dizzy buzzed mosquito spilling his blood)
a sad & profound pleasure & meanness & quietness spreads up in him.
he feels after a long time. the present sharp as a shaving nick
all around, a zen udder of consciousness, a deep, cushioned, stained diwan
the drone of the fan is the metronome of his dying
in that stabled emptiness, each labored breath pops
the last flowers of consciousness- they explode his head-artery
his mosquito-blood splotches the haveli walls
is all death parasitic murder?- the children stare into his cataracted eyes
& absorbedly aim their catapult
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