BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Photos by Kim Dorman

Through a grimy window
open fields
small houses by tracks
people standing
or sitting
in doorways
watching the train

. . .

6.30 p.m. muezzin’s call to prayer

. . .

The battered, rusted pans the workmen use
are as beautiful as things in a museum.

. . .

names of butterflies
Sahyadri Birdwing
Sahyadri Grass Yellow
Sahyadri Rosy Oak Blue
Malabar Banded Swallowtail

. . .

Nightfall.
A lamp,
its shadows

All morning, rain.
Thousands of cicadas sing at once.
I sit by the window and sip coffee,
watching rain pour from the eaves.
I’ve lost touch with old friends.
Lizard droppings lie scattered on the window sill.

. . .

I’m not useful like a carpenter or plumber. I sit alone
on veranda steps, gaze at the evening sky.
Neighbors are quiet; the road to the village is empty.
The moon set an hour ago.

. . .

Shadows blur on whitewashed walls.
Serrated, spinning: leaf midair.
Sensitive cells know day from night.
Chitin, bone, shell.

A street barber squats on the pavement.
Mirror, comb, scissors,
razor, soap
neatly arranged
on a threadbare blanket.
Coins fall like stars.

. . .

moth shadow,
web
let the mind
rest

. . .

I’m a stranger, outcaste passing through

. . .

A dog limps past,
vagabond.
Whisper of river grass.

Drums reverberate.
An oil lamp gleams.
Heat. Sweat.
Gods and heroes
dance through the night.

. . .

The rain doesn’t end.
Fungus eats our nails, books grow white mold.
Pillows and sheets smell of mildew.
The whitewashed walls turn green.
A huntsman spider clings to a corner of the ceiling all day.
There’s no daylight.
The rain doesn’t end.

. . .

Fog at dawn. The smell of cook fires,
feces, wet earth.
The sky stays dark.
My heart:
a withered seed.

. . .

Last night I dreamed I was walking by the sea
and came upon a group of thatched huts.
I asked an old man, “What place is this?”
“Nelcynda” he said.

. . .

I light a citronella stick.
Bullfrogs roar in the flooded paddy field.
Already the road is quiet.
My lamp flickers
and then goes out.

. . .