I make do with just the fragments.
Especially, I go to pieces of sleep
From wholes of daily wakefulness .

I have just dealt with moon pieces
In balcony ,lying in bucket’s water
During broken pieces of my night.

On other side of a night’s balcony
I have dealt with a wind in pieces
As the chimes went softly after it.

I handle them and like apparitions
Not as wholes but pieces of them
In a daily sleep going after truth.

Poetry goes after truth piecemeal
As attention spans are too small
For the wholes of truth in prose.

I deal with my fragments of truth.
Apparitions are sleep’s fragments.
Luckily they are never in wholes.


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