Air Black

To Sridala Swami and Winter 2014–15

She says yesterday’s faded-denim sky
of many washes
brought down leaves that
were not choked with dust.

My sky today was a crumpled khakhi
with dirt like the Sirocco’s,
but without its strong breeze,
only its dust.

Her dust-free leaves flew around,
settled on the ground, were
picked up again,
by the wind, and made
patterns, murmurations,
did rounds.

No current moves the cloud
settled over our heads here.
The leaf my nephew picks up, and navigates
around, playing with it like a plane
in his hand, will not lose that
film
of dust,
that’s settled!

Delhi is one thick haze
of that cheap opium den,
where everyone’s an addict
of toxic scum.