NEW VERSE

Hands tremble
when dreams
give birth to clouds.

We lay down to sleep
but not in a meadow.



Disarmed by
the rhetoric
of vowels and syllables,
sibilant notes
stretch
like red and green rubber bands.


Getting roused from such a sleep
is the exact minute
when they tarnish our names
with clipped phrasings
all over the yellow duvet.


They bring up Fate
and that
Day of sentiments.

***



Some things remain stained
when we succumb
to our verses.

Some things give birth
to greater purpose
than appraisals
on the last Friday
before September.




***

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