Abhimāna*
forest stones
turn pockets
green
we
before
away
our promises lie
still
under
fallen leaves
somewhere
between the trees
a shadow shifts
as another
turns
far south
a bell struck once
rings twice
one for the flowerpot
the other still
travelling
to where
the key once
was
the courtyard cat
washes his stripes
as the dog leans
on one shoulder
his body
too heavy
to carry
both
back home
a man drags a chair
through the house
refusing to sit
his pockets
shaped
around
a stone
his mouth
around
a wish
not yet
the boys
are late
*A Sanskrit word for a particular kind of hurt felt when someone we love wounds.