The Drive Into Goa:

Village huts plastered in mobile ads
clinging to the rest of the water
that still hangs in the air,
dropping slow.

Men in dhottis climbing paddies
like the electrical towers that snake up the hills,
in the lush green of morning’s showers.

If the stone is flat enough
you will find plastered bills
illegible and
ghostly of purpose.

Near the bus stop (red clay and mud)
women will line up
with their saris and satchels
resembling more a fragmented prism,
exploding in dyed hues
against the lingering grey of dawn

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