Hollant
They beat the water    with long sticks
.                       .to startle the sea

they draw them in
        ..they pull them up
in their shiny nets

            ..they let them drop
 .           .at their feet
            ..on the floor of the boat
                       ..till they lie still
in the nets of language
.                              …..all finished

dead fish                    .  .poems

Baina

Four muted men
 .             ..sit with their old backs to the sea
Their waterfall eyes cascade
            .down womanly shapes
                  .that have come to compete
.                  with the sunset
Their minds constantly moving
                  .from epiphany to information
                   .and back again
They turn around
.                   only when it’s dark
Their eyes in need
of dimmer lights

Odxel
Mid-tide at Odxel –
              ……the sea has its pants down

Ships slowly entering
.                  ….the river’s wide mouth

 .Grasses stroking
 .                            ..each other’s thighs

Curly waters foam
.around black, pharm testicle rocks

Or is it just the young ones
.stepping into the pleasure ocean

of their eager bodies
 .in a beached Maruti car

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