rain fell on midnight and our sleeps,
on outer walls inside into basement,
as in city lakes they build houses on
like an old poet words raining down
on midnight and on lines in stanzas
they turned prose of poem for night.
our old city lakes they had forgotten
they were waters with a green moss,
like fish ponds in the Bengal homes.
fish and flesh they made from lakes
they were prose steins of feminism
now they are feminist plastic poets
like fish they jump from cloudy air
into a living room television news
and fall on sky’s signals distorting.
it is no paper boats in street rivers
we send boy to boy , houses down.
it is rubbish jars floating in cellar.
four motors whir as midnight dogs
at their aching stomachs sated on
stale leftovers of overfed humans.
4 motors are dogs yelping as hard
as ghosts in children fearful belly,
that dream fear of vomiting stale
poet prose is his old poems stale.
they smell like fear in our bellies
and night whelps of painful dogs.
forget old the poet’s fearful belly
to concentrate on water gushing
from breached wall of dirty canal.
now it is water likely fearful belly
with a plate tectonic movement
inside the snake of the belly fear.
it is not beauty of hill’s cascade
but stink from greedy stomachs
that make houses of our waters.
here are more motors whirring
to make a basement less of lake.
their sound is rain on midnight.