Sitting at a roadside café in Calcutta
I note preparations
for the carnival not very far. The idols

of the Gods and the Demons
dry under the tarpaulin canopies
in the serpentine streets and blind alleys
unfinished

After a long time in the wilderness
where the roots of the trees entangle with
the unlettered sleep
and the clouds hung over roofs
unabridged

I came back to the old city of ornate
manholes and dilapidated frontage
and empty bookstores for some ordinary solace

like the smell of clay Gods and
the Demons with green
skin in the middle of buses honking and
parks flowering