Kushal Poddar

The First Fly

The fly trots along the dry cement yard.
I can smell it, albeit where is the rot?

The first rain lives its previous life.
The river ferries 
the soporific workers from this to that. 

Blink, and I see the black dot buzzing; 
blink, and I see nothing
except the bubbles born on the summertime eyelids. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s