Hours

It is that hour of the day

when the calm, next door wind

moves so fast it scrapes the flesh

off the bones and leaves the heart

open like an exposed wound

so a universe of memories settles on it

like dust clouds on grease

So even as you shut the windows

and draw the blinds an air current

roughly the size of your own sorrow

clings to the curtains and stares at you

with a stubborn gladness

Here I am again

And the mind with all its fondness

for reason and purpose

now seeks a place to hide itself

from all things that constitute

the randomness, the sameness,

the everydayness of life

Like an orange sun

setting behind the tattered edges

of buildings

casting shadows

on the criss cross of lanes

that lead footsteps marching into

the whore houses of this city.

Soon they will be full of emotions

perhaps like my teeming heart.