Poetry of Issue #7        Page 36

From My Letter To Bakhtin

Mother kept her eyes unbloomed one day;
I read Sandman's dialogue from a stool besides her bed;
mother's arm displayed years sans sun;
our street cat felt loquacious sitting near our pane.

Tomorrow, mother will open her eyes;
the sudden movement will propel the feline to leap;
today, I read the death of Morpheus.

In the chronotope someone flashes in his loo.

  Kushal Poddar