The Square

The Square

Shadowing hordes of inundated,
Haggling towers to the ground,
Peeking for piecemeal,
Liberated of the bugle’s sound.

Entertaining drowsy unwashed steps,
One for the supine laid across
it’s unextraordinary expanse watched by extraordinary men.

Boots clapping at the stone,
Fountains binding speech,
Tremulous artists spill their
Odes to joy at every interval
The involuntary to testify.


Bottled mirth.
Red eyed,

Infinitely malleable in our chains.,

Unqueit at the rocks of dawn.


Treasured by foreign lands

Muted, molded by unyielding hands,
The battalion of limbs yearns to shake the shackles.


Crescendo pitched yowl:
Mutes fraternity,
Frets on hallowed mosaic;
Steps standoff tears;
Welt pinions portrait;
Lamp bounces off the mirror;
Immobilize my intentions
Confession booth, draped in ungodly rug
She toils to shake hands with liberty,
Welcome! The queue screams, at Ellis.
He forgets the ghastly makeup in 94′,
“Oh love,” the bangles cried, ” measure”
“Take me to sleep on Sundays for the rest of my life”



Stories percolating through
streaming brunette:
The kingdom gates open–
circle to hustle the raconteur
for tales of her journey

Lashes bow:
“Wait for me, won’t you?”
I’ve been locked in the tendrils of your lunacy
since 14.

Did your hometown Rockies quiver at the shudders of your mouth?
Fearing what unknowns you may spear next.

How do those same lips
that pout such deep pink
arouse tempests that melt snow caps to mountains’ knees.

+92 or Memories

+92 or Memories


Navy loaves of drowsiness
With knees bossoming pillow

Arm slung over the rest
Like an addicts last wish

Pirouetting to the apogee
Of theft;
Rain forms at the plates of her glasses,
as my hands climb to her shoulder

Crotch inflating,
A minute or 10 can’t hurt.
Her index, never to forget, dials the digits.
Cell phone left dizzying in blur.

To the gas station
My harrowed friend.
Peck my lips.
No matter.
I have eternities to give her.
We will be reborn as paintings

Dining with father
On mother’s back
“You cannot wait”
Land line jingles.
Snap to attention,
“She’s back home.”
caught in limbo.

“Too many in Karachi”
“We must, though”
Behind the laboratory,
Where geniuses sleep, like croon voiced detectives patting themselves for the perfect turncoat.

Providence you have answered my letters
As vegetation scrawling from the cracks of machinery.

The Day After–
Laptops in browse for
Child Protection Services,
While you skidded like pigeons across
tarmac to the 777.
It rings then.



-Photograph: Gazi Nafis Ahmed

Holler through the streets

Apertures travel potholed planes
Tuat bodies

Mittens fastned to bars
Steaming of haste

Swinging like
The insides of a cage:
Hungry to live.

Elbows nest
On the dozen ertswhile
Fairy tales stamped across every classroom window,

An unassuming brick sends
waves through glass,
cracking contemplation,

At once,
entire anatomies wrestle at the doors,
tumbling onto one another
to rhymes of fluid tarmac,

the doorbells ring in unison,
only the loose kneed beggar
is left clasping the notes accrued in her palm.
clasping the notes accrued in his palm.

This poem was previously published in the Daily Star