A glass breaks, snaps in pieces just like that
and brings back the distant space it was bought -
memory and wistfulness in the format
of a raw, jagged rim. A morning caught
between the smells of the dust and diesel,
between the crosshatches marked on the road;
the mood chasing its own tail like a mongrel,
the vendors already in touristy mode.
The traffic in the cloak of peak hour rush,
the more the haste the more viscous its gait -
the whole day an indeterminate slush
of bleached sky and earth in a grudging wait.
Now that the glass's broken it's got the sheenof a greater truth, more than what glass should mean.
Tomorrow marks the start of the Indian autumn festival season - the Navaratri or nine nights culminating a month later on Diwali, the festival of lights. I have family visiting from India during the Durgapuja (yay!) - so I'm going to be a little occupied with stuff offline, but will be there for the WEP October Spookfest. Online and off, it's going to be a megablast!