A poem


With cognition as its mahout,

the mind, in its bone howdah,


wishes the body would call it

honourable sahib, but the body


has another name in mind not

befitting mixed company and


waits till its flyweight rider

has fallen asleep to pictures


of itself in emperor’s clothes

before body, in its own form


of dreaming, imagines racing

naked under a crescent moon


with another kindred spirit,

freed from similar bondage,


who completes it, delights it,

doubles its sense of itself as


sumptuous in its pachyderm

heaviness under streetlamps,


till it can almost forget how

kicked into line it is by day.