Mangoes As mangoes bash the iron shed
and moonlight floods the grizzled lawn
I think of what I should have said
and toss in bed until the dawn.
Masked lapwings passing overhead
repeat their old nocturnal pain,
kekekeke, a song of dread,
the sun has gone away again.
I talk with all my loving dead,
who tell me they have always known
that light and darkness have misled
the living who are not alone.
Hear fruit-bats screech as overfed
they thunder heavy mangoes down.
A drunk, percussive aliped,
a Nosferatu on the town.
The crows are up. My eyes instead
shut down to miss the morning sun.
The bats, the lapwings, now have fled;
my friends leave with them, one by one.
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