62
Satyamurti
One day he wasn’t there. I still miss him. I know – you might well ask. But I never saw anyone so beautiful, so completely harmless. Don’t laugh – in my mind, I call him Gabriel.
Only Joking
Jokes were what he had to say for himself; they stood for small talk he didn’t know how to, for ordinary love you he didn’t know how to. Did my mother, refined as Reigate, ever laugh?
Some demon drove him to embarrass, as if to say I’ll really give you something to despise, and I not knowing who to side with When I think of cringe, I think of that.
When I brought friends home I’d will him: talk shop, fishing, anything. It took years not to mind
What goes . . . a sailor, a dog and a paper bag . . . under the ground?
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