sonder's corkscrew unbungs the barrels

of my heart— the spill, like crude oil

on black waters, is too dark to call itself night.

whose sigh carved what name on that icy lump

called breath that pries her lips apart.

is there no curfew for the cows grazing

on the sides of that brown calvary?

a mile of lotuses briefly but bruisingly blooming

in the black and red and here i am

looking for someone who will play holi with me

using only the shades of grey.

the way gazes interleave— two proximal points

stretched infinitely apart— an armadillo rolling

into a skittle that falls ahead in an embrace

and becomes ribbons.

let satyavan go, savitri. say to death

i am not, i hate, i blind, i don't, i won't.

i am a cuckold, i like to watch my thoughts

get fucked up, keep watching, tune private notes

to the music of witnessing breaths and call it

poetry, as full of nothing as a dictator appointing

a jury of children to bring him not happiness

but merely a justification for his stupid sorrows.

~ ajay

15/3/2022