One item filling her arms
when he yawned the door
was the umbrella opened
when she left in afternoon,
an umbra begun in breath and blue
under a dome of breaking spines.
There was no salwar kameez or sari
even in aqua and ivory to meet
when she crossed the lintel,
her pale and ungainly jog
in the journey away from ash.
There was no magic in the candy wrapper
nor three-chord punk in sandstone places
nor copper rounds meant for flipping tails.
His mistake indeed.
The flat husk of a crushed toad
was sad baritone to his eyes:
the candor of found objects
easily embossed in giddy flock.
The pointing yellow markers
painted by an unknown hand
marked out a route in henna
that he already knew quite well,
for the want she imagined in him
was meet for her when peaking,
was only a blossom tip where
floating in a cloudy dome
the blood orange hollow rises.