Everyone is a ghost here.

Three ghosts exit a bar

and walk across the street.

It’s also a strange morning

when children go cart-wheeling

to school.

And in these narrow lanes

where I still hear bicycle


But never mind all that.

It’s the ghosts I was speaking of.

And the ghost city on the move.

See how one rushes

to the other as he gets crushed

by a train.

When I die, they can

kick my body into

a garbage dump.

The dogs may eat me

if they care.


The above poem is from my first collection Reeling (2012).

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