Posthumous poetry We are mostly writing posthumous poems In the corners of our souls, in the outer reaches Of our

bodies, from the despair of ripe nights. A shrill midnight whistle causes such poems. Some poems come from lonely street corners Where heavy boots will arrive, on Himalayan Feet with large sized memories of kids and wife In a firelight of warm coals in deep snow hills. The street dog s howls aggravate such poems. A bloody uprising in us triggers some poems In the unreal company of a Kafka in beard When humongous creatures fill front rooms Of overflowings from pockets, book shelves Our windows closed from the inside of rain. Our literary agent has just died of our poems. He will sure publish our poems posthumously.