Noway, I will ask
the poem, to become stressed out,
like the street,
beaten and used again
and again.

Where do you want to go
for a rendezvous with―
unknown, in dark,
groping for the unsung,
unseen meaning?

Time is worn out. You live
on the fringes, unselling
your ancient home, submerged,
after the earthquake,
triggered by ghosts of comments.