so many
blackbirds
go awry,
distorted
pyre,
squared
emptiness,
unaware
the compass
points
per suicide
& that October lass,
who died on the stairs,
feeding birds — mother
& teacher & finally friend,
were she here today
she would do it again —
feed the birds — I ask why
she stayed so long,
her eyes to the sky
in the ripening meadows,
the barn, the ladder thereby
(could I ask,
what’s ‘sandwich’)
‘That’s ‘where’
you’re goin’,
a wee bit there
down the road,
& wait, here’s
a penny for…’
(now why am I
in Haridwar)
on the platform
at Rishikesh —
were you then
in bright red
(& gave me ‘kippers’);
I was ragged, I
had left my dhotis
with the elephant,
would you have them —
‘long way, indeed,’
you said, ‘to Picadilly’
ayaladn 