The midnight wind blows. She wakes up and saunters on the moonlit shore. The cemetery steeps in the ylang-ylang fragrance. She no longer needs that skull. The air is free from political pollution. She is not a ghost in the traditional white sari. Nothing (sublunary) remains in her memory (except a vague trace of love). Otherwise, she will perceive the religious follies. Death has vanished permanently. Loss is nowhere in her sense. No shackles. She meets him in the silver light. Not zonked, she is zippy. Life has lost its weight. Soft as kapok, she drifts on. From the latest issue of The Literary Hatchet