The death of 2016

Cold? He asks from a train seat
To idiot across, who says very.

In makeshift bed they would lie
And touch a death to feel softly

And the year would mingle salt
And difficulty of death with life.

We may mingle salt and sugar,
Morning tea on makeshift bed.

We are idiots inching to a love.
Cold ? He asks and we say very.

(Remembering Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot)

Advertisements

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s