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AISHWARYA IYER
liminal storm

He went to crap in the morning
And found the sun leaking into the sky
Like a huge blot
Oh the rains he thought
Everything's wet
Even her lips and her words
All dipped in moisture
All the dampness is hurting the walls
They can be pushed like skin
Till you see the veins
And then the clothes never dry
Stubborn bigots
A sheet of spores sleeps
Over the paper leaves and books
Flying and filling the window holes
A highway for flies on their romantic Sundays
And then who to believe
In this rain
Even the taxi driver can't trust his vision
He's wiping his windshield
But the mist is stuck
I can still hear all the footsteps
As one enters V.T. subway
Normal, visceral, rhythmic
Pressed deep under the raining car horns, the
Bird sounds and human voices, leaking pipes
Like a first rain sound
I find my umbrella on the street
Clamped in a stranger's fingers
All of them,
All the umbrellas
Are moving through the city
Exchanged, lost, found,
Outside shopping malls, trains
Departmental stores
And public bathrooms
I have a wet head
Damp and cold with old
Daily moulding images
Slice by slice by slice
In reverse chronology
Till date where
You can sit inside
Like at your balcony
Looking out
While it rains