Poetry at Sangam



LATE AUGUST by Dennis Nurkse

She let me sleep in her kitchen
on two lino-covered chairs, then
on her porch, then in her bed.
I sensed the thousand threads
of her Holland sheet under me.

A cricket kept me awake all night
while she moved beside me
imperceptibly, like a swimmer
negotiating the long swell of a dream.

At midnight it rained and I thought,
is it possible, Corona
will still be familiar?

Once a finger of light
streaked across the ceiling
but I knew it means nothing.

When dawn entered that room
sideways like a gimpy cat,
I was no longer I, just me,
she was you, but the cricket
insisted in that dry click-voice
it saves for the brief days.