I’m sick of not seeing you    He poured himself  a glass of her thoughts    two years after she won  a scholarship to heaven    to pursue her PhD  in life after death    and sat down beside  her antique gramophone    with his senses  straining in the dark.    “I’m sick  of not seeing you,    I’m seeing only  the back of an African Wild Elephant  and the wide open jaws of the vultures.    Helpless days of confinement,  a stultifying inertia  and no knowledge of what comes next.    “Where are your  eyes in the sky, Grand Ma?” he sighed.    Where are the bald eagles?  Where are the rhododendrons?  Where? Where? Where?    He stammered and cried.      What type of poem am I?    “What type of poem am I?”  I am as formless as the clouds,  and as elegiac as the silence,  in the itinerary of the noise.    I am not a classic  written by the author,…

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