Or Perhaps a soul

by Yuyutsu Sharma

Plump drops
of an early morning rain

speckle
the dusty treetops

mottle
the cemented squares

of our simmering
courtyard

and in a second
turn into a demon

to start drumming
the kitchen roof upstairs

making any exchange
about the plague

caused by
this miniscule being

ravaging our lives
impossible,

a being so small
that doesn’t have

a shape
a face or a form

a head or a heart,
or perhaps a soul.
From a longer poem in progress, “The
Days of Great Gloom”