The summer is already high up in the sky. I hide my sun behind the tree.

Tree eminently rhymes with John Donne’s flea, a tiny subject of the lover’s contemplation. The subject is not physical about the lover whose unconsenting  blood mingles with his in a flea. Just a little and beyond the physical.

The flea is a conjugal bed , a sacred cloister for  union of two souls. The bodies do not figure anywhere except for the blood they supply.

You entreat not to kill   three in a flea
It is sacred room this tiny flea’s body
To consummate  union , you and she.

It is not a sinful union inside the flea
Maiden’s loss is negligible in body,
Metaphysical may however be  silly.

My dog, the one who had followed my pantleg some days ago is not seen today. It must be busy with its fleas.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s