On the Richter Scale

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1

It’s drizzling since cockcrow. It won’t stop. They name it a seasonal hallmark. Winter precipitates. 4 on the Richter scale sits comfortably on the human body. A scattered crowd walks on the street. Roadside lamps romance with their acrylic veneers. Doused Banyan trees await desiccation. West side of the footpath marks the ghettos. Here the residues burn. Frozen limbs budge. Numb nerves wish to whistle.

 

2

Fleeing from house and keeping the doors ajar. Is it perversion or fallacy? To amble solitary in winter is amusing. It provides solace for some time. Smoke does not arise as the mouth opens. Tiny crystals of ice accumulate along the crease. They melt as the nip recedes, barring a hint of steam. An aberration? No trace of forgotten ventilators, the fumes swirl to ascend. The scale marks 5. Does vapor perspire?

 

3

A seven-year-old canvas invites dust bunnies. Mopping whitens it; gray patches lurk in the brightness. It looks at the artist, Desolation, who paints fresh water-colors. The cloth blushes. It absorbs all the cuddles. The elbow hits and makes it pale. The veil dissolves. Mirror bathes in glassy water to reflect light. The sea longs for a rendezvous. Desolation stands still. The Richter fails to respond.