Prageeta Sharma




Inner Weather

A purchase of futures was at the edge of all this.
That trailing call, a cry; so as if to beckon the generosity
of a single soup kitchen or the stranger with the benign encroachment. Why
does it trouble me to stand over there. Why do I feel that I was over there? A
fountain addresses the lack. We wait for it to spurt, I wait for the dream house
   to collapse.
That has to happen to vainglorious architecture.
Because it triggers more of those kind of feelings.
When can I expect the cloud to encase all of it, moving towards
its own recognizable base. Did it lead me? Did I follow that rumble?
Do I earn my keep? In a serious, meaningful way?
Do I know how to stretch reason away from accountability?
Are you inside this moment with me? I had wished it so but couldn’t recollect
a time when anyone was. We all looked up and caught a sense
of it as it almost coughed or sneezed, but it was inanimate. It, too, was distant,
having taken leave succinct and strange though
cavernous, so wide inside.