April

There is a chance of mangoes ripening this April.
A chance his heart might break into patterns
Of gray cold bricks spread on a tram-track.
Do not call them fissures.
He does not like the word.

He is allergic to pungent emotions
Bad odours,
Bad English.
Bad girls he might like though
This night, this April.

There is a chance of the blood burning
Like never before.
Sick at the drabness of leaves
Not whistling, not obeying
This April.
How must he live?
With little flesh and no admiration?
Like a melody turned sour in
A cracked throat on a sad evening.

All his chance
All my hope,
Boiling in dirty vessels
All this fiery April.

So take him to misty lanes
Of dark affections, darker roles.
Take me to damp museums
Of shredded robes
And feeble swords.