i want to write poetry
(in shards of glass)
that cut thinly, finely
like the smell of a glorious winter morning
in shillong
i want to write poetry
with lumps of mud and bits
of sticks and bamboo lashed
together tightly with
miles and miles of memory
i want to write poetry
in the beams of motorcycle headlamps
and ancient jikov carburettors
lovingly preserved
in the dust and grease
of Ahmed's tiny temple
i want to write poetry
sweet mother of god, i want to sing