Quarter Town

This Quarter town

And half a village

Cannot be my own

 But its fusty

Insular air helps me

 Dream better. 

Pity and dignity
The twin crow
Mascots 
On every door
Hung below
A humdrum stretch
Of lackluster sky.

And still below
Women rise
Suddenly
Through thickets,
Their turmeric faces
Averting dry mounds
Of browning feces...

I need the madness
Of the Coramandal

Where I wash

My guilt,

 Where sporaedic

Bizarrely twisted

Limp limbs toil

Giving me a sense

That I am
Better bred.

That sustaining illusion

Makes Kings

Out of wimps.

So,

 This Quarter town

And half a village

Cannot be my own