when evening azan brings dusk tumbling
down like playful children somersaulting
and i don't know what we're at –
if it's the end or beginning of something
too shy to twinkle in polluted air
and every now and then a super blood moon –
phrase redolent of nocturnal shoot-outs
in the wildest of wild west westerns –
appears on tv news and in astrology columns –
lucky for you to escape such sublunary concerns –
out of which you've sent us a beguiling parcel
the postman hands over ceremoniously –
the wrapping torn off flutters away like sparrows
and i am holding in my hand a shiny ceramic brick –