The evening sun pushes down
a few headless coaches and some
bodiless engines and holds them
in the red. Light baptizes the railyard
and leaves the sermon to the crickets.
All night long they go on.
The kids nearby sail high and dive deep.
This night one of them sinks;
his forehead rests on a bar of rust;
his skin ripples around a needle;
breathing forms a slurry line flat in the end.
The evening in the yard feels hot.
The metalwork releases the heat they stored.
Now night perfects a chorus praising cold.
The ghost of the last winter anoints the space.
The silence blunts the whistle from the live lines.
Sleep absolves the sin.
About the Poet
Kushal Poddar, the author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe