Sudhanshu Chopra
​​​Summer 2017

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Self
 
I’d like our embrace
to do the talking.

The floral-print blanket,
our garden,
when the sun doesn’t shine.

A book of philosophy
on my chest, you lie
over it,
 
what is, glaring and stark.
 
*

Invite

The last subway boils,
its gates ajar
for infant fingers, roasting air wisps
from hidden alcoves. Gnats play ball
with light, gashing their shins
for exit;
 
day’s words unmixed in your blood,
 
the shadows have already liked you,
 
found you intoxicating;
take you away
from alighted doors,
fluorescence,
by your elbow,
 
walk you down
 
rain-oiled, centripetal freeways
where six sigma rubbers lapse
 
to where real party animals dwell.

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