hand is full     wading searchingthe edge of summer    is there a rosebeyond the rice fields     a birthmarkhovers above the neighbourhood     etchedin bauxite dust     boys behind takeawaysrework playlists     as the plant destroys usbut my hand is full     of words     likegrass     perforating the old latticeleave your eggs here     in the helix of my earsafe     in the ‘world-class banking scheme’raipur is where the earth’s warmth is hatchedthis hand is full     of other hands     colourscracking the dense world     distorting theclearing     when i say clearing     i say maoistsat the bus stop     saying yes     to the hill mynaclearing the thick august morning     pulling outold samples and hits     as the ‘export quality’teak wood around it shivers     tired &often leaving     but at least the hand is fullmy song says no     keeping a secret that changes cloudsin a grove of scared     interfaith lovers     scattering the messageof haze     day’s first light     wedged in a spider’s web     the househas four hands     one of which is always repairing     anotherrattling on the roof     offers gifts     to passing sparrowsa flatbed truck     transporting loudspeakers     to a political rallycrosses the street     blasting from it     my song says no     bambooscaffolds     tearing construction tarps     like piercings oncows     the tailor who won     the urdu academy     poetry awardlets neighbours     loiter in his shop     as he sewsa new button     on my school shirt     swarm of mosquitoescover yesterday’s dead mango seed     in a wetdreamof extraction     to the surplus time     my song says nothe devotee looks up     & cuts the river with a coina small surcharge     for raipur’s slowness     where a newcoal block     cannot die within the land     & dusk     crudeas cash     circulates in the skies     raiding     softeningthe first-person lyric blow       my song says no