There's a legend about something
lost in the sky.
I gaze out of frozen eyes
at the yellow darkness,
my limbs torn apart by terror,
my mouth wide open in shock.

I see the ant
poised on the lump of sugar;
the clothes on the peg are dead,
the hands on the clock-tower's face
have hung their heads
but nothing happens

I burn from
the agonised cries of bats
thrashing between lamp-posts,
the threshing screams of animals crushed
below horrible edifices,
the phantom laughter of mad prisoners

I burn from
the spectres of my own lusts,
ghostly shapes of myself,
relics of myself
evaporating in the air
but nothing happens.

Kids go to school with satchels on their shoulders;
Ma sits making rotlis in the kitchen;
I kiss my beloved on the cheek at dusk
but nothing happens.
There's a legend about something
lost in the sky.

As I was birthing,
something died.

1964.