Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










In The Salon by Arun Sagar

Time to draw up a list.
Sweet sitcom break-ups.
Japanese films, the dramas.
A nightly walk
past the cathedral and
onto the quays or bridges.
Water, not
for real but an image.
Not the Seine but the Loire,
black.
Evenings in the salon
where right now my friend
and I are drunk.
He is telling me his story.
I think of a girl in a movie.
I think of an insect
seen -
in a splash of sunlight -
heading for my eye.
No preparing for it.
No escaping it.
All of a sudden my friend is quiet.
Now he takes me in his arms.