The only place I ever lived

alone, but slept myself out

of the memory. My room

crammed with king-frame

more manspread than bed-

spread – creamy linen sheets

but no quilt. The bed clothed

entirely in light. The window

doubled as front door. Thin

curtains lifted in the honey-

vinegar of swollen mangoes,

which split like lightning split

the street in two. Beyond,

wine-bottle storms doused

the room in green petrichor.

The night’s lapping tongue

and sleepless groove – an

inseparable expanse of lines.