Time and again you are running away
from all the warehouses and the waterfront,
scum cascades, reading September on the Jessore Road
lolling as we admire our cocoon and swear
at our Indian mess rap, raga
and a whiff of salient namastes
along the turf and the racing green
but ah! let’s forget things and just do it
let you be a meadow of silent, wet
kisses and sloppy hugs the French and
the Swedish Erotica made us learn
as if in a dream, we were walking away
from the warehouses, holding pagers and
stammering, stuttering away into nothingness
like holding you, sticky,
sweaty palms and wasted blackberries
and the years and us, silently.