a crawling traffic on the far lane / on the near one a weave of buses

one of which will be mine tonight, hosting my body in its secretly

simmering engine / behind the lanes, an empty railway line / for now

I'm waiting / I realize I like to see strangers pass by in a beehive hum

even though familiar eyes feel like burning moths on my body salivating

a miasma in which every movement of mine has to slosh through an air

of needles // behind me, a roadroller at work rolling the road into flatbread

for the next monsoon to dine on / the under-construction building is getting

a haircut from a swiveling crane / it's dark already, shortest day of the year

after all / the empty railway track platformed in an evening redness feels a

vibration / I feel my bones shiver, the roadroller // I wanted to end this poem

with the arrival of the bus but I know, even afterwards, I'll be waiting / my

chest will become headlights, eyes windshield, little fleshen wheels, spinal

luggage rack, blood fuel in heart engine, as I arrive at me waiting / I depart

for the arriving me / I arrive at the departing me / I enter myself because

where else can I ever go / arrival is synonymous with departure in a relative

& finite world / at least the vibration comes true & the speed of the train

beyond the lanes gives me a hopeful thrill

~Ajay
24/12/2020