Converations: Delhi

After a month in India I finally manage to write a poem. Not a good one, mind you. But a poem none the less. Criticism is more than welcome.

Conversation: Delhi

Listen You,
resonate, burlap city, germinate
my pores with dust, smog. Quiver
in barren with kinks, squinted
from rooftops. Teals, the undertow
of silk, sequins sunning themselves.

Make me obsessive
mosaic of plastic bags catching wind
like kites. Roof top city. Pump cold
showers from iron faucets to private heights,
make mazes to the ground, the primate way:
ledge to laundry line, strung pomegranate
red against white wash.

City of fat fruit, cut into tulips,
the poor man's pineapple, lined
with olive colored seeds like marrow. Murderer
of pomegranates, seed blood sticking
to your hands, fingered.

Make me- infinite city-
myopic.