its 12 midnight.
while day sleeps, the night is awake with windy dreams
lashing on the edge of your conscious
thoughts disconnected falling and then away
softy licking ,softly tingling me in my half-sleep and then dying

and i sit , selfish. Because i thirst a turquoise poetry wave
a lashing of exquisite words. of this world yet not quite
for the day: kills every thought. there is no more perfume in words
maybe it is that the sun in december -scorches dreaminees
cruel sun and added to it- slits in the ozone

nowadays i brood too much on plastics.
depressing activities like garbage sorting occupy too much time
depressing herons sit around the open drainage that flows next door
their long pink beaks beaten down, they fold their majestic wings-hiding them
wary of opening such visual luzury in such darbiness

eleventh hour citizens cannot write much poetry, i guess
we know too much and yet we cling and clutch on to our laziness
the world is crumbling-but slowly. and we hurry on
the herons are dead , the trees mourn silently ,
their cries stretched out from dried branches