i can almost count the number
of skids to Pune now.

we were kids once,
fifteen summers ago.
the night stumbling through its
golden touchstones like a
drunkard. it, slamming shut the door of
its brownstone house with its
slewed gait. it, throwing its death gaff upon the
hearthstone, emptying all
the grief it has collected
against the edge
of the cobblestones outside. did i say
night? i meant death, with all its
gravestones and discarded birthstones.

there in Pune: the angles of the street surprise me.
everything a little straighter
than back home. the people a little
less hunched. same prices on the

menu, same old faces. i wait
for hours on end. i stay perched
upon the little stool outside, stare
at a single point on the map until it
blurs itself into singularity.
i have mired myself in the spaces to
nowhere.