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pools of people unspooling 

onto pavement like streetlight

loquacious and laughing, lubricated eloquence
luminiscent fish swimming hungrily through the night.

Can the subaltern speak?

You only get words
If you're an nth generation immigrant
Where n is not  zero.
(Makes sense -
0 is nought
a naturalized number).

But
The words you receive are magical:
"Thank you (for leaving your home)"
From rupi kaur daughters, and
"Sorry (can you repeat that)"
From everyone else.

Constellations

A hugging couple nuzzles noses lazily
On the patch of grass near me
As I gaze at the batch of stars above me,
Linking with little lines
Fires that burn infinitely apart. 

The Past

The past exists
As a collective fiction
Like the law
Or democracy
Or LLCs.
It lives only in the fallible minds
of people.

Revolutionary Road

Encapsulation of suburban
Subhuman men and women
All their concerns trivialities
Their merry-go-around motions.
I feel chilled by the idea
That we can all of us be reduced to
Mice, our importance written away
By penetrating words. The veneer of
Relevance we clothe ourselves in
Is flimsy as parchment paper to
Ink. 

Old Leaves

All the days I had known you
Lay still and drying as old leaves
How was it that a single touch was all
It took to catch fire?
Surely you have touched me before?
As friends?
Perhaps our memories
Weren't old and dry then
As they are now.