untitled

6 p.m.
met in a loft on the Drive,
scanning the Sea.
Hussein smoked circles in the
air-conditioned air;
a Mother Teresa painting of Hussain
on the wall.
from the loft, across the Drive, the Sea,
the Hill was on fire
charring decencies.
nameplates were clues to hatreds.
Hussein shiftted to a Hotel
assuring anonymity.
"will this pass," said Hussein sipping a gin.
stripped of sacred thread,
stains of brahminical breath lingered on
the banks of an iced vodka
when Chintamani said:
"will have its weathers.
will not pass."
having lost excuses they strolled into poetry
on a fourth round .....
the sky has no sea,
the sea has no sky,
the earth neither ....... desires of life and death will
blur, now and again, mostly .......
dawn was not.

.........

20 years on.
they have not met.
no subtlety left.