August MorningBY ALBERT GARCIAIt’s ripe, the melonby our sink. Yellow,bee-bitten, soft, it perfumesthe house too sweetly.At five I wake, the airmournful in its quiet.My wife’s eyes swim calmlyunder their lids, her mouth and jawrelaxed, different.What is happening in the silenceof this house? Curtainshang heavily from their rods.Ficus leaves trembleat my footsteps. Yetthe colors outside areContinue reading “August Morning : Albert Garcia : : August Poems : : Months Poems : :”
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MADHU MALTI 