I came home. My tiny bit of sky
waiting like a tangent on my life
to get hold.

The rain beating down outside
like a smiling idol in drought
naughtier and stronger than I’d supposed.

I kept my bag, drank my tea
and feeling for flaws in my bakery biscuit’s curve
tried to forget.

Now – it prodded again.
Now or never.
More now than the now
before this lowly biscuit of yours
swallows world.

I fear now.
Grandfather died
in an urgency to tell me
it is bad omen to keep whistling at home.

Then early next morning
cautious of my looks, walking stiff,
I left again for the place
where masters of universe are taught
how to become
fragments of it.