: ‘Breathing. One does it through masks these days. Unless someone kneels on one’s neck’ #IndiaNEWS At Home, the virusUp from my pages My gaze hovers on the ceiling. Imprinted on Cornish tin, precise

‘Breathing. One does it through masks these days. Unless someone kneels on one’s neck’ #IndiaNEWS
At Home, the virusUp from my pages My gaze hovers on the ceiling. Imprinted on Cornish tin, precise and recurring Geometries of another time and place. Oregon pine in serried ranks on floor Czech pane on door, stippled, translucent. The remains of an earlier world. At home.Black and white tiles alternate aslant The floor resonant of other times and cities. Feet planted firmly, my tongue dreams Of flavours from old Parsi restaurants. Blue gas flame, the sly crackle of fat The meat sweats in the steam of clove. Quiet. But a star has fallen somewhere.Drawing a line of colour bisecting my vision Filigree of greens crowned with pink, purple and yellow. Low slung electricity wires, occasional birds in a fret On the horizon. Serrated line of buildings, a tank. A pointed tower like a hypodermic syringe Injecting the clear blue sky With the anxieties of those at homePlastic fronds of the kitchen broom Send dust and crumbs skittering along the floor. Refuse bags, blue and black, the remains of the day sorted A walk through the archway of green and white to grey bin. The steam hisses downwards from the iron the fabric stretches and relaxes luxuriantly. Even as the sax frenetically builds up tempo.My fingers run along spines Dappled, stained. Peeling from the sun That angles in through the study blinds. Phrases, words, fading aphorisms Making stories through anagrams of...Read more

Stock Market NEWS Best intraday tips Intraday Stocks below 100