On smog

If I could have any color I found to rouge my cheekbones with, I’d streak the peachy rose of Calcutta’s twilight smog across my apples, In place of the exhaust and dust catching to the salty dewborne of an India afternoon sun.The clouds tinted here at sundownare more than a fat little cherub-pink;they glow with… Continue reading On smog

The Drive Into Goa:

Village huts plastered in mobile adsrainclinging to the rest of the waterthat still hangs in the air,dropping slow.Men in dhottis climbing paddieslike the electrical towers that snake up the hills,entangledin the lush green of morning’s showers.If the stone is flat enough you will find plastered billsillegible andghostly of purpose.Near the bus stop (red clay and… Continue reading The Drive Into Goa: