the yellow-orange ones,
all over gloom dreaming.
In the evening,
in the square,
pigeons are picking on feed
in the buzz of the market.
The lanes of descending darkness
are broken by the whir of cars
and people walking past the shops
with the lights coming on;
the merchandise, the customers,
the tailoring shop, the bookshop,
the grocery stores, the saree shops,
the restaurants, the tea-sellers,
the vegetable sellers, the fruit sellers and
the flower-sellers outside the temple
calling out their wares
have now brought the moon down to Matunga.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).