A satellite dish, a gutted bowl of sky,sags from a lintel scoured by monsoon.The rain has its own patience. It fillsthe cat’s forgotten saucer to the brim,then empties it, a ritual for no one.A poppy’s red fist in the chai-shop hearth.In the school’s one bell, a paper palaceof wasps. The god’s gaze is polished blankby

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