the whisp of summer air
smell of diesel between the congested road
the last bit of sun setting
hot beads of sweat tickling down the neck
and the long summer talks
of the wish to go back
grab a cup of ice water
sinking on a chair
near the balcony
with a plate of hot samosas
and ranting about the heat
which seems
unbearable for the hills
the cool breeze awaits to cover the town with its blanket
at night
the sudden signs of rain
thunder clashes it
only to find
a bright day the next morning

in class, so, out of class, I’m sure we did, at least, some
of us, me, anyway, now, here, which I hope it’s OK to do,

and I’m not going to glorify it, or understand it or, maybe,
even write about it, instead, writing about the fragments