Leaving, Entering by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

Half of your flipped truck

reclines within the border.

I watch sun lift

the hem of the barbwire skirt,

sniff at your merchandise.

We shall be late to

clear the vigilantes, bro.

We shall spend cold

in the cave of night all darkness, waiting.

You light up the pipe of talk.

Peace, I say to the circling eagle.

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