The race towards zilch

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fleeting rabbits
invisible rooftops
armchairs
tea-stained crochet
beckon me now
O Kisna,
the evening hues of your colors
are now smothered on midwestern roads
the lake paves the way now
and the lighthouse slowly dims
they sway to the tunes of
'tha-thira-kata-thai'
the pin roll of the chapati maker
against the granite floor
neatly cut into chess board squares
the pawns are lost
the kings are wandering
it is me and my empty field
shall we write another story?

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