Thought Noir Poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul

sometimes they get ahead of me,
these things.
leaving only tatters,
confused smoke hanging in air.
it welcomes me, in gestures
and weepy smiles.

after being stored
in some unimaginable place,
they smell of broken earth
groaning, howling
not just in passing
but in a way of finality.

they are my elongated,
immutable holes.
my hard winter
of rubbing hands and palms,
of watching birds
perched on stone benches
not knowing what to say.