Maybe I will not write poems anymore. Maybe the heart has returned to what it was: polished mass of ticking meat. Petals are petals again and not held words. The world has realigned for me. Because, probably, mother is in an- other city, and not sitting at the end of the sofa in my rented room, the laminar flow of her tears re- ducing me to a single purpose—an echo without any perimeter. Abluted with light, yes, that is how it felt when you decided I was who you thought I was and, softened the dis- tance. I sat down day after yesterday to pin my wishes on words just to see if they were still there. Do the lamps beat like a heart too outside your window? Hmm? Ingredients for reincarnation: glass, air, vellum, water. Diaphanous with joy, yes, that is how I walk out into the world. See through me, whatever that I had to hide left with the hurricane or sogged in snow or burned in fire. I remember all the dates we touched on. Mother would have cried at my happiness. In my language we say Chale aao. What I mean is I want you to come to me even after you have reached me. Maybe I will sit on the scalloped roof of an abandoned building, night af- ter yesterday, to watch the stars: peeping daylight of another planet that they are and you: horizon of a new poem, jagged scene from a bare boulevard.