has it been morning all around these cotton clothes
an introspection marked by red cape alters several yellow charts
has anybody seen my india
ink pen abd has anyone worthed past my farthings
up to now hegemony meant time for mourning
whose list grows chubby less deep
winter lines remain
unable to be worked around
the lingering quartet means roses
where dampness used to overturn the lark
some young impromptu shared with chaperones
who offered to appear to want some time alone
as mere procrastination might have lawned away
our heartful glance
there never have been windows that could match
imagined winter dominoes at last
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